


Roses Under The Cypresses

by Kate_Lear



Series: Leaving Eden, Finding Paradise [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:55:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28168083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Lear/pseuds/Kate_Lear
Summary: Crowley has spent so many years worrying about Aziraphale. And, even now the world is saved, some habits aren't easily set aside.See Notes for content warnings.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Leaving Eden, Finding Paradise [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2064270
Comments: 59
Kudos: 106





	1. Prologue: London, 1601AD

This jug of ale is never going to win any awards, but it’s at least drinkable and Crowley takes another gulp. It would be improved if it was – Crowley concentrates – some of the very _best_ ale, that the landlord keeps at the back of the cellar and only serves to his particular friends, and even as Crowley lifts his hand the ale is already changing colour in the jug.

There. Now perhaps that’s something the angel will drink without wrinkling his perfect nose and complaining. Although he’s only himself to blame: Aziraphale had wanted to meet somewhere neither of their respective sides would think to look for them and Crowley had grudgingly agreed to this tavern, with its walls blackened by smoke from cheap tallow candles, and the rushes on the floor half-rotten.

Crowley drums his fingers, shifting on the hard wooden bench and stretching his legs out. They had an appointment, for Hell’s sake, and Aziraphale isn’t here. Oh, he’s in the door of the tavern so he’ll probably try to claim he was punctual, but he’s on the other side of the room, delayed by one of the humans who wants to talk to him.

To confide in him. The humans can’t help it; they respond to him, even if they don’t know what it is they’re responding to, and unless Aziraphale consciously avoids it then he can barely get down a crowded street without a chance remark turning into a conversation. And this tavern, round the corner from the Globe and full of actors and whores and apprentices playing truant, has so very many souls in need of an angelic ear, or a discreet blessing. And even though they try his patience and make him late Aziraphale loves them, every last one of them, and he can’t help himself.

Crowley, behind his glasses, glares at the side of Aziraphale’s head, and the lank hair of the woman delaying him; he’s only vaguely aware of someone taking a seat on the bench next to him.

‘Do I know you?’ the man asks, setting his mug of ale down on Crowley’s table.

Crowley doesn’t even bother to turn his head. ‘No.’

‘I’m sure I do.’

‘Nah.’

Crowley lifts his hand again, ready to give the drunk human a little nudge to send him on his way, but realises that the man is clear-eyed and alert at the same time as the man exclaims, ‘Yes, you were at Hamlet’s opening performance. One of its earliest supporters.’

Reluctantly, Crowley pulls his gaze from Aziraphale and turns. ‘Master Shakespeare.’

‘The very same.’ He offers his hand and Crowley, after a moment, clasps it. ‘Call me Will, please. It’s a pleasure, Master…’

‘Antonio,’ Crowley says, after a pause. It’s an idea he’s toying with. The humans all have two names, and a name that subtly implies he’s foreign makes it so much easier to excuse any eccentricities.

‘A pleasure.’ Shakespeare smiles at him. ‘Will you take a mug of ale? In thanks for your support for my little play. It’s done rather well of late, if you can imagine it.’

‘Fancy that.’ Crowley looks back to Aziraphale, who is beginning to make attempts to move away, but is being stalled by the human, her hand gripping his forearm. Crowley hisses softly between his teeth.

‘Her name is Juliet.’ Shakespeare has followed Crowley's gaze. ‘I could introduce you.’

‘Introduce me,’ Crowley echoes, confused at first and then, as comprehension dawns, incredulous. ‘To _her_?’

His tone gives his answer, and Will’s face shifts into a new understanding. ‘Ah. I see.’

‘Oh. No, that’s not—’

‘Say no more.’ Will holds up his hand, silencing him, and even ventures to give Crowley’s forearm an awkward little pat, his eyes full of a veiled sympathy. Crowley wants to snarl at him, this man who observes everything and understands nothing.

‘There’s nothing to say. We’re not… he’s… look, we’re friends. Sort of.’

‘I understand. And does your friend know of your regard?’

‘There _is_ no regard.’

‘And yet, of all the taverns in London, you meet here.’ Will waves his hand at the tavern. The half-rotten rushes on the floor, the stink of unwashed bodies and tallow candles and spilled beer, and Crowley and Aziraphale so out of place in their nobles’ dress. ‘Perhaps you shouldn't be meeting?’

He understands nothing. Or rather – if one listens to the rumours about the subject of his latest set of sonnets – he leaps ahead and draws inferences where there are none, seeing what he wants to see. Crowley is wasting his time talking to the man, when a snap of his fingers would send him on his way, his mind empty.

And yet some deeply buried impulse makes him pause, and say instead, ‘No. We shouldn’t.’ He gives a small, humourless smile. ‘You could say we’re from different houses.’

‘Both alike in dignity,’ Will murmurs. His eyes are fixed on Crowley, alight with the hunger of the born storyteller.

‘Something like that.’ Crowley grimaces. Aziraphale is sidling away from his conversation and the last thing he need is to find Crowley talking about their respective head offices, otherwise he’ll get nervous and run away to a monastery and Crowley won’t see him for fifty years.

'And you worry for him,' Will suggests.

This is enough to make Crowley round on him, for it's a dangerous idea to give voice to. He would never tell Aziraphale, but Crowley has spent several sleepless nights trying very hard not to think about the torments Below would enact on him if they got even a whisper that Crowley was doing anything other than hindering Aziraphale. He also tries hard not to imagine who they would send up to replace him, and what that demon might do to a soft, too-trusting angel.

Crowley glares at Will Shakespeare, who lifts his hands. 'My apologies, good sir. Perhaps I presume too much.'

'You do,' Crowley says curtly. He changes the subject. ‘What are you working on now, then? Something new?’

‘A love story,’ Will says, seeming distracted.

Crowley brightens. He likes those: mistaken identities and lads playing women pretending to be lads and humans letting their lust overrule their good sense. It delights him all the way down to his demonic core.

‘I look forward to seeing it.’ Crowley lifts his mug towards Will in a toast before drinking, just as Aziraphale extracts himself from the girl and hurries over to them – determinedly ignoring all other attempts to catch his eye. Beneath the table, Crowley stretches out a long leg and nudges a chair towards him with the toe of his boot.

‘Master Shakespeare.’ Aziraphale smiles, warm and unguarded, and it’s unclear whether that ripple in the air is an actual blessing or just a side-effect of angelic delight. He sits, and takes the mug of ale that Crowley pours him. ‘Such a pleasure to see you again.’

Crowley smirks into his mug as Will blinks, slightly addled in the wash of divine approval.

‘Likewise,’ Will says.

‘Congratulations on Hamlet,’ Aziraphale says, still beaming. His eyes flicker to Crowley. ‘I’m delighted at its success. Couldn’t be happier.’

As Will gives his thanks, Crowley shrugs and looks away, as though it’s nothing. As though Aziraphale hasn’t returned from Edinburgh to find that nothing short of a miracle will get him a ticket to the new play that everyone is desperate to see. But he can’t help softening slightly under Aziraphale’s smile.

‘Thank you.’ Shakespeare attempts to look unconcerned, before giving a writerly little cough. ‘Was there, er, any part in particular you liked?’

Aziraphale needs little prompting. ‘Oh yes. The act three soliloquy was marvellous. And Ophelia, the poor girl. And—’

Crowley doesn’t listen to the rest. He tops up Aziraphale’s mug and calls the serving boy over to order some roast meat and bread for him, and then sits back and lets his attention wander around the tavern, amusing himself by looking at the humans with his occult gaze rather than his human one. One of the serving girls is pilfering the takings, the owner is tupping the other one and thinks his wife doesn't know, and that apprentice lad over there is thinking about selling his master’s trade secrets to his rival for spite and a handful of coins.

Crowley grins, amused at their petty squabbles and concerns, and shrugs when Aziraphale – well aware of what he’s doing – gives him a Look. He’s a demon, what more can Aziraphale expect from him.

‘I mustn’t keep you from your friend,’ Will says at last, finishing his ale and setting his mug aside.

‘Oh. He, er. We’re…’ Crowley waits to hear Aziraphale deny him again, as though they’re two total strangers sharing the same sticky table by chance. But Aziraphale only murmurs, ‘Yes. Quite,’ and looks down into his empty mug, pink-cheeked.

This is surprising and Crowley stares at Aziraphale, trying to read his expression with his face half-turned away. He only grunts in reply to Will’s leave-taking, and misses entirely the speculative look that Will gives him.

‘Friends, are we,’ Crowley says. He refills Aziraphale's mug, for something to do with his hands.

‘Well. I did just ride a horse all the way to Edinburgh for you, so I suppose we must be.’

‘You were going to Edinburgh anyway,’ Crowley points out, but beneath it he’s pleased. He pushes the plate of food a little closer to Aziraphale’s elbow. ‘How was it?’

Aziraphale grimaces. ‘Not entirely without incident. You see, that clan leader you were supposed to tempt – it turned out that he was rather less available than you said.’

Crowley settles into his bench and listens to Aziraphale tell his story and doesn’t spare another thought for Will Shakespeare’s bright inquisitive gaze.

(But later – when he reads of two lovers from rival houses dying for love in each others’ arms – and much later – when he finds one Antonio quietly pining for his friend Bassanio, and another Antonio rescuing his friend from robbery and murder, all for love of him – he will snarl and hurl the printed booklets into his fireplace and swear the stupid man understood nothing at all.

Much _much_ later, several centuries later, when Crowley has come to terms with his heart and its wants, he will think that Will Shakespeare understood him perfectly well.)


	2. Now

The bookshop door slams in Crowley’s face. He only just gets his fingers out of the way in time and then spends a few moments staring at the wooden door inches from his nose. He waits for a noise, a twitch of the blinds, anything to indicate that Aziraphale might be watching.

But the bookshop has fallen silent once again, with Aziraphale refusing to even peep out at him, and Crowley hunches his shoulders and squirms further under the overhang of the doorway, out of the stinging rain. This is no ordinary rainstorm; Aziraphale must be upset beyond all previous experience if he’s creating such a weight in the fabric of the world as to distort its weather, and Crowley recoils as the faint holiness of it prickles his skin.

When the guttering above the door twists and sends a thin, deliberate stream of water down into the gap at his collar Crowley hisses and writhes, maddened by the fiery itch, and finally retreats to the Bentley.

Back at his flat it takes three showers before the burning prickle is soothed to a faint tingling flush, and Crowley sits at his desk, slings his feet up onto the marble surface, and stares out of the window. He’s bloody well gone and done it now. Curse that human. And curse himself, his own weakness for responding to him. He’s a demon, he has no business letting the misery of humans stir him to sympathy.

And now Aziraphale is upset, and barricaded in his shop, and Crowley grinds the heel of his palm into his sternum, vaguely nauseated. It’s been so many centuries now that he’s instinctively known where Aziraphale is – whether he’s experiencing intense joy, or fear, or grief – that to suddenly feel nothing of him at all is like having his sense of balance excised. He hadn’t even known it was possible to draw back from each other so completely, but if either of them was going to find a way to do it then it was always going to be Aziraphale: beneath his absent-minded exterior he’s fiercely clever, and he has centuries of knowledge at his fingertips.

Crowley waits two days before trying again, and in the meantime he paces his flat and mutters to his plants, no heart for his usual discipline. What does Aziraphale like? Well, that’s easy enough, he likes his books, and flowers, and the finer things in life, be it wine or sushi or chocolate. He doesn’t like – Crowley swallows, and spritzes half-heartedly at an orchid – things that are flashy, or too modern, or insincere.

This time when Crowley approaches the shop it’s under a sky that’s overcast, but not actively raining. He drives up without any revving of the engine or screeching of tyres, wanting to project a more considered, thoughtful approach, not like his usual flash and speed. He scoops up the flowers from the passenger seat – the largest, most sweetly scented bouquet he could assemble from three of London’s best florists – and the bottle of wine.

It’s a Chateau Lafite; the first time they had shared a bottle had been in 1589, during a rare evening of coming together not to divvy up tasks under the Arrangement, but simply for the pleasure of each others’ company. Aziraphale had never explicitly said how much he liked that evening but he didn’t have to, not when his eyes softened with memory every time they drank a bottle. 

Crowley clutches his offerings tighter.

 _Look,_ he wants to say. _I remember that evening, and I noticed how you enjoyed it. I notice everything about you, angel; no-one on earth knows you like I do._

There’s no answer to his knocking, but then he hadn’t really expected one. But there’s also no answer to peering through the blinds, or calling Aziraphale’s name, and Crowley grits his teeth. Well, it’s Aziraphale, he hadn’t expected this to be easy.

‘I know you’re in there.’ Crowley puts his eye to the narrow sliver where two blinds don’t quite meet. The shop is, to all appearances, deserted. ‘I’m not leaving until I speak to you.’

No reply, but the grey clouds over Soho thicken and Crowley opens his mouth wide, his ears popping as the air pressure plummets. A raindrop falls on his shoulder, another on his cheek – it stings and itches, and Crowley hisses and redoubles his knocking.

‘Nice try, but I’m still not going anywhere, you’ll have to come out and smite me. Look, I only want five minutes with you.’ No reply. ‘Two minutes.’

Still no response, and Crowley sighs. ‘Fine. Then I’ll just—’ inspiration strikes, ‘–I’ll wait here a moment then.’

And with that he sinks down to sit on the top step, leans back against the closed door, and sets himself to be Noticed.

Both of them can pass unseen when they wish, although it takes a certain amount of concentration to maintain and generally it’s easier not to bother. Particularly since Aziraphale actively likes interactions with humans, when they aren’t trying to buy his books, and he’s forever smiling at them and performing tiny miracles to ease the course of their days.

But now Crowley concentrates on _not_ being unnoticed. It’s difficult, this sort of thing is more suited to an angel visiting a human village with a divine message, all heavenly splendour and ‘Be not afraid’. Demons have no use for such things, since they lurk in the shadows, but they’re all of the same original stock and Crowley focusses on becoming a weight in the world, bending and distorting reality around him. After a short while passers-by begin to slow, peering out from under their umbrellas to wonder what that man is doing on the doorstep, and whether the shop might be open so they can come inside out of the wet.

Sitting like this his knees stick out from under the meagre shelter of the overhang, and the holy rain begins to soak through his trousers and sting. It’s distracting and Crowley is so absorbed in it – determinedly ignoring the growing itch on his legs, and fighting his natural impulse to melt into the shadows – that the footsteps inside the bookshop barely register until the door vanishes behind his back and he thumps backwards, sprawling winded on the floorboards.

Aziraphale’s face appears above him. Even upside down and glaring he’s still lovely and Crowley wheezes, ‘Hullo, angel.’

Begging forgiveness at Aziraphale’s feet with flowers is one thing, but rolling around clumsily in the dust is another.

‘For goodness’ sake, _get up_ ,’ Aziraphale hisses, but Crowley is already scrambling to his feet. ‘Stop making a scene.’

The rain is falling steadily now, and the humans are stepping around puddles on the pavement. Crowley rubs his stinging elbow, trying to recover his lost dignity along with his breath, and carefully doesn’t voice the reply sitting on the tip of his tongue: _Yes, angel. Because I’m the one making a scene._

‘Aziraphale.’ Crowley steps forward but doesn’t even make it across the threshold before Aziraphale quickly closes the door over, leaving a scant few inches through which to speak.

He’s quick, but not enough to stop Crowley glimpsing the inside of the bookshop.

‘Your shelves…’ Crowley bobs, trying in vain for another look but Aziraphale neatly blocks him. ‘What’s happened, why’re they all…’

Empty. Books in piles everywhere on the floor, and Aziraphale scowls. ‘I’m doing inventory. And I’m very busy. So if you’ll excuse me.’

He makes to shut the door and Crowley says, ‘Wait,’ and thrusts the tip of his boot into the gap. ‘I need to speak to you. Look.’ He holds up the wine, miraculously unbroken, and the slightly dishevelled bouquet. ‘It’s your favourite. I thought we could sit down and have a glass—’

‘I’m afraid not.’ Aziraphale barely glances at them. ‘I’m very busy. With the inventory.’

Bullshit, Aziraphale has never been too busy for Chateau Lafite, and certainly not with inventory of all things, and Crowley slowly exhales through his nose. It isn’t as though he hasn’t expected this. ‘Well, when will you be free?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Aziraphale won’t look at him. ‘I’ll call you.’

‘Promise?’

‘Mmm,’ Aziraphale says vaguely. And then, warningly, ‘I’m going to close the door now.’

Crowley only just gets his foot out of the way in time.

The next day he’s back. Aziraphale’s efforts at doing what a proper bookseller ought to do – inventorying, and cultivating customers – have only ever been half-hearted in the past. At heart he’d far rather sit reading one of his beloved books, with a cup of tea and plate of pastries at his elbow, or share a bottle of wine with Crowley. So Crowley drives across to South Kensington, to knock on the kitchen door of Aziraphale’s favourite boulangerie until they pass him out a paper-wrapped brioche, still warm and buttery-fragrant from the oven.

And he also carries one other thing: far too delicate to be entrusted to the passenger seat, instead it nestles in his inner jacket pocket, next to his heart.

The bookshop door still doesn’t spring open for him, but when Crowley knocks there are footsteps and the door cracks open before the echo has died away.

‘What?’ demands Aziraphale, through the gap.

‘Morning, angel.’ Crowley tries a smile, but it feels odd on his face.

‘I’m busy,’ Aziraphale begins, ‘I told you, I’m—’

‘I know,’ Crowley says quickly, ‘I know you are, I’m not here to distract you.’ A lie, but he clearly isn’t getting inside the bookshop today so he changes plan. ‘I thought you might not have had breakfast, so I brought you this.’

Crowley holds up the brioche and lets the smell drift towards Aziraphale, watches his nose twitch. ‘From that place you like in South Ken. Fresh out of the oven.’

‘Crowley…’ For the first time, Aziraphale sounds unsure.

‘And there’s this.’ Crowley digs into his jacket pocket and produces his other gift.

Aziraphale, to Crowley’s mild perplexity, had taken a liking to snuffboxes back when they were all the rage in the Regency period. Not snuff, which he tried a few times before declaring he couldn't see what all the fuss was about, but just the boxes for carrying it. Gold and silver, enamelled or set with precious stones or plain, he amassed quite a collection and Crowley, bemused, had even gifted him a few that he had picked up.

The one he had lifted from his safe that morning was more than that. It was gold set tastefully with precious stones, far more splendid than most, and there was no passing this off with a casual, ‘Found it lying about’ or ‘Saw it in a secondhand shop,’ there was no disguising it as anything other than a love token. After their first trip to Paris – and Crowley’s disastrous approach to Aziraphale – Crowley had shoved it to the back of his safe, unable to bear the sight of it. And then what with one thing and another it had never felt like the right time, but this morning Crowley had lifted it gently out of the safe and breathed a miracle over it, vanishing the dust of centuries until it gleamed as it had when it left the goldsmith’s workshop.

Now Crowley holds it out to Aziraphale, and has the satisfaction of seeing him hesitate.

‘Go on.’ Crowley nudges it gently towards him. ‘Take it. It’s yours.’

‘Mine?’ Aziraphale echoes. He looks at Crowley, faintly dazzled, and Crowley – scenting victory – hides a smile and stands a little taller.

‘Yes. Go on.’

But the next moment Aziraphale’s expression darkens thunderously. ‘You can’t just _buy_ my good opinion, Crowley.’

‘I… no, that’s not what I—’

‘And I told you. I’m busy—’

‘–doing inventory, I know,’ Crowley sighs.

For an immortal being who doesn’t need to sleep, Aziraphale doesn’t seem to be making much progress with it. Over Aziraphale’s shoulder the bookshelves look, if anything, even emptier than yesterday.

‘Look,’ Crowley says, very gently, tucking the snuffbox away. ‘I know you don’t want to, but we really do need to talk about… about last weekend. Paris.’

‘No,’ Aziraphale says at once, no hesitation.

‘Aziraphale—’

‘ _No._ ’

And the door slams.

The next day Crowley rises, dresses, and stares at himself in the mirror. How many times will he have to do this before Aziraphale will speak to him? And why had he ever agreed to a weekend in Paris in the first place? But the answer to both is very simple, and he sighs and drives over to Soho.

This time he takes no flowers or gifts, only himself, and he leans against the doorframe when Aziraphale fails to respond.

‘It’s me again, angel.’ He folds his arms, stares at the closed door in front of him. ‘Just checking up on you. Making sure you’re ok.’

That’s a laugh, Aziraphale is anything but ok, but what else can he say?

Crowley rests his hand against the wood. Under his palm it tingles faintly with the residue of all the casual miracles used to open, close, and lock it through the years, and the paintwork still looks exactly the same as the first time Crowley walked through the doors, so many years ago. Aziraphale had never imagined it might need refreshing, and so it didn’t.

‘Will you give me five minutes?’ Crowley asks the doors. ‘Two? Just to see you.’

For a long moment it seems as though Aziraphale isn’t going to answer and Crowley settles himself against the frame, but at the faint sound of footsteps he stands straight.

The door opens a crack, and Crowley sways forwards. ‘Hello, angel.’

But the pet name doesn’t seem so appropriate this morning. Instead of being full of divine righteousness and heavenly fury, Aziraphale looks… diminished. Despite not needing sleep he looks tired, and Crowley could almost swear his waistcoat hangs a little looser.

All his clever arguments, his silver-tongued persuasion, abandon him, and all he can say is, ‘How much longer are we going to do this?’

‘Not much longer,’ Aziraphale says quietly. His shoulders are bowed, as though they carry the weight of their newly saved world, and Crowley aches to push him into his armchair, make him a pot of tea, and listen to him talk about a new purchase, or an old favourite. Instead he grips the doorframe tighter.

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’

It ought to be good news, that Aziraphale is almost ready to yield. But Aziraphale doesn’t look in any more of a forgiving mood and something feels off.

‘Now if you don’t mind…’ Aziraphale is already closing the door and Crowley, searching for something to prolong this interaction, blurts, ‘Sushi.’

Aziraphale pauses. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Sushi. From that place you like. You look like you’ve not been… well, I thought I might fetch some. Got a sudden craving for it.’

A poor lie and they both know it but it allows him a few more moments, and as Aziraphale is muttering his refusal Crowley looks over his shoulder into the shop. With all the blinds drawn the light is dim but it’s enough to make out the bookshelves, still bare, and something else too: boxes. Scattered here and there, and a corner of something that looks like a packing crate, and his knees nearly give out in shock.

‘You’re leaving.’

‘What?’

‘You’re packing up the shop.’

‘Of course not.’

He’s always been a bloody awful liar, and Crowley doesn’t even bother to acknowledge this one. ‘Aziraphale, you can't leave. Look, it was a misunderstanding, and if you’d just listen—’

‘No. I don’t want to discuss it.’

‘But we need to. Because you’re… you’re—’

‘I’m doing inventory, as I told you. And it’s easier to take all the books off the shelves to do it.’

‘Is it fuck.’ Crowley’s useless heart is racing fit to burst. ‘You know I can always tell when you’re lying. You’re packing up to leave.’

‘I’m not. Now if you don’t mind…’

The door twitches a few inches further shut, but Crowley clings to the edge of it like a life raft. ‘You can’t… you can’t just _go_. You don’t understand, I—’

‘Crowley…’ Aziraphale rocks the door to and fro, trying subtly to shake his hand off, and then mutters, ‘You’re making a scene—’

‘Come away with me,’ Crowley says.

The door stills and Aziraphale looks at him wide-eyed and shocked. ‘You're not serious.’

‘Course I am. Come away with me.’

Aziraphale opens and shuts his mouth a couple of times before eventually managing, ‘I hardly think that’s the best—’

‘Please. And afterwards I promise—’ Crowley swallows heavily, ‘–I’ll let you leave. I won’t try to stop you. Or follow you.’

Aziraphale looks away, and doesn’t repeat his denial.

‘We’ll go to… to…’ Crowley glances around wildly and sees Aziraphale’s suitcase, still sitting just inside the door and not unpacked from their Paris weekend, and says the first destination that comes to mind. ‘Scotland. Let’s go to Scotland, I know how you love it. Single malt Scotch, and shortbread, and tartan everywhere.’

‘Crowley…’

‘Two weeks. Just give me that, before you go. It’s nothing to us, you know that.’

‘A weekend,’ Aziraphale counters.

‘One week.’

Aziraphale hesitates then nods curtly. Crowley almost collapses with relief.

‘But,’ Aziraphale says, warningly, ‘we are _not_ talking about Paris.’

‘But I thought we could—’

‘No.’

Crowley clenches his jaw. The whole point of coaxing Aziraphale out of his shop is precisely so that they can talk and Crowley can explain himself, and he slides his free hand behind his back and crosses his fingers.

‘Alright. No talking about Paris. So you’ll come?’

Aziraphale nods again, and suspicion tickles the back of Crowley’s mind. ‘Promise?’

‘Mmm.’

‘Say it.’

‘Oh really.’ Aziraphale frowns. ‘I hardly think that’s necessary.’

‘Say it, Aziraphale. Aloud. I promise to spend a week with you in Scotland.’

‘Fine, then! I promise to spend a week with you in Scotland.’

Crowley relaxes even as Aziraphale glowers. Aziraphale will wheedle and misdirect and obfuscate and even, if pushed to it, attempt to lie, albeit very badly. But once he gives his word on something he never breaks it, and Crowley eases his grip on the door.

‘Let’s leave tonight. I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock, I thought we could take the sleeper train. I know how you like long train journeys.’

Crowley had hoped to win a nod, maybe even a smile, but instead, horribly, Aziraphale’s expression cracks and Crowley glimpses a grief so profound it steals his breath. He steps forward without thinking. ‘Angel—’

‘Must get on,’ Aziraphale says quickly, fussing with his pocket watch. ‘Lots to do.’

After the door slams, Crowley rests his palm against the wood. He pushes lightly, testing, but it doesn’t budge and he sighs. Well. At least he has Aziraphale for the next week. And in the meantime he has to find a cottage, book train tickets, and buy enough food and wine for the week – with particular emphasis on the wine, Aziraphale has always been more willing to listen to him after a few bottles.

But rather than dashing off to arrange everything he spends a few moments with his hand pressed to the door of Aziraphale’s shop and listens to Aziraphale on the other side, separated by a few inches and an unbridgeable gap.


	3. Then

It ought to have been impossible, on Aziraphale’s lumpy horsehair mattress, but Crowley was full of their celebratory lunch and the Ritz’s excellent wine, and drowsy from sex, and he fell asleep. And, unusually, he dreamed.

He more often didn’t, which was one of the reasons he loved sleep. He had seen more than enough horrors during his waking hours that he had no desire to revisit, but sleep was restful bliss: no fretting about his next summons from Below, or Above and their hold on the angel, just deep oblivion. But the past week had been eventful, and perhaps his brief stint in Aziraphale’s body earlier that day – and his visit to Heaven – had disturbed him more than he liked to admit.

It was a vague, half-formed thing – impressions of whiteness and open space and a high clear note like the ringing of trumpets – and forgotten when he woke and found he was alone in the bed. No sign of Aziraphale and Crowley sat up sharply and swung his legs out of bed, worried before he closed his eyes and sensed the angel downstairs.

Aziraphale was among his bookshelves, and Crowley dressed and slunk silently down. He heard Aziraphale before he saw him, humming snatches of Gilbert and Sullivan and breaking off to address a volume in a fond murmur. Crowley tucked in his shirt and tracked him to the ancient history shelves, walking silently on the outer edges of his feet to see if he could startle the angel. Some demonic impulses weren’t so easily set aside.

But when he rounded the corner then the shock was all his.

Aziraphale had dressed, although his hair was ruffled and he hadn't bothered with a bowtie, but Crowley only had eyes for Aziraphale’s wings; they trailed distractedly on the floor as he read, tidying forgotten.

It had happened while Crowley slept. They were a dingy, dirty grey. Aziraphale had Fallen.

How could Aziraphale not feel it? More importantly, how had Crowley not sensed it when it happened? He had felt Aziraphale die, surely he shouldn’t been able to sleep through something like this, and he swallowed and fumbled behind himself for a table, a pillar, anything to lean on. He found a bookshelf and gripped it with numb fingers.

How should he approach Aziraphale? He was certain to blame Crowley for it, and with good reason. Crowley needed time, a few minutes to work out how to deal with it, and he stepped back but knocked over an unstable pile of books and Aziraphale, predictably, jumped. ‘Oh!’

He whipped round, but relaxed almost at once. ‘Crowley.’ He smiled, one of his real smiles, nothing like the nervous grimaces Crowley had seen over the past week, with Aziraphale so frightened and trying so hard to hide it. ‘Goodness, you startled me.’

‘Yeah.’ Crowley tried to smile back.

‘I thought it – you – might have been—’

‘Heaven,’ Crowley finished, his stomach squeezing. He should have thought of that, and suddenly his impulse didn’t seem so funny.

‘What?’ Aziraphale looked honestly confused. ‘No, I thought you might have ben a customer.’

‘Ah.’

‘You think…’ Aziraphale looked hard at him. ‘Are you still worried about them? You still think they might come for us.’

All it would take was a nod, a word, and Aziraphale would be back in his own small, personal hell of nervous worry where he’d spent the last four thousand years, alternately drawing close to Crowley and then getting frightened and pushing him away.

‘Nah.’ Crowley shrugged elaborately. ‘Pfft. Course not.’

‘Well, good. You shouldn’t be.’ Aziraphale stepped close and Crowle tried not to be too obvious about peering into his eyes. Still blue, no creeping edge of black or blood-red. Not yet. Crowley’s gaze drifted helplessly back to the grey feathers drooping forlornly from Aziraphale’s back. Even his usual colours seemed faded and dull. ‘Because I told them, you know. When I was down in Hell, I said to them– You’re not listening to me. What is it, what are you looking at…’

He looked over his shoulder, trying to see what had caught Crowley’s attention, and Crowley said hoarsely, ‘Angel.’ He put out a hand, ready to catch Aziraphale if he faltered at the discovery. ‘You, er. Your wings, they’re—’

‘Oh my, they’re a mess.’ Aziraphale had seen for himself, and he closed his eyes, gave a small wriggle, and Crowley watched as a thick cloud of dust lifted from him – not just his wings, but also his hair and clothes – and vanished. ‘There.’ Aziraphale opened his eyes and smiled, once more pink and gold and fluffy.

Crowley goggled. ‘What the _fuck_.’

‘I wanted to inspect the back room. And it was...’ Aziraphale’s face pinched defensively. ‘I mean, I always intend to get around to cleaning, you know I do, but...well. There’s always so much else to do.’

Crowley’s knees were weak with relief. If there had been a chair near him he would have collapsed into it; instead he leaned on the nearest bookcase and tried to make it look casual. He made a vague noise of agreement.

‘Yes, you’re quite right, I oughtn’t to have had them out,’ Aziraphale continued, oblivious. ‘But it’s been so nice, these past few days. It’s made me realise I never really stretch them properly.’

As he spoke Aziraphale’s wings lifted and arched wide, one outer edge seeming to pass through a bookcase in a way that implied the laws of physics were mere suggestions. They were so white they almost glowed, and Crowley stared at them and made another incoherent noise in his throat.

Aziraphale peered at him, a tiny fold of confusion between his eyebrows that Crowley wanted to kiss. ‘Are you alright?’

He couldn’t tell Aziraphale. He was happy, blissful among his newly restored books, Crowley couldn’t spoil that with his own worry. And so he let go of the pillar, stood up straight, and shrugged off Aziraphale's concern. ‘Course I am.’


	4. Now

‘Angel!’ Crowley knocks on the bookshop door, only just resisting the urge to pound at it in blind panic. He’s been knocking for five minutes now without reply and perhaps Aziraphale isn’t there, perhaps he’s quietly locked up and fled London while Crowley wasn’t looking. But no, he can’t have done, he promised he would come on this trip and Aziraphale keep his promises, however much he regrets them. He keeps them grudgingly, unwillingly, even sulkily, but he keeps them. So Crowley knocks, and at the faint scuff of footsteps within the shop he gives an explosive sigh of relief.

The door opens a grudging sliver, enough to show a slice of Aziraphale’s frown. ‘You don’t have to disturb the whole street.’

‘Wasn’t sure you could hear me. Thought you might be in the back.’ Crowley has seen Aziraphale feign outright deafness in the face of customers wanting to buy one of his precious volumes, he knows the level of angelic stubbornness he’s up against.

‘I heard you perfectly well. Wait there.’

Aziraphale’s case sits just inside the door and Crowley reaches for it gallantly; he only barely gets it out of the way before the door shuts in his face, but not before he glimpses shelf after shelf of empty bookcases, their books stacked neatly in boxes. A few more have been cleared even since that morning and he sets his jaw. He’ll put this right, somehow, even if it kills him, and he swings Aziraphale’s case into the boot and opens the passenger door, waiting.


	5. Then

‘I still say there was no need to terrify the poor lad,’ Aziraphale said, the leaves of the trees adding a reproving rustle to his words. ‘He was doing his best.’

Crowley smirked, and side-stepped a small child on a scooter. ‘Which got a whole lot better after I stepped in.’

Aziraphale bit his lip and looked away, but not before Crowley caught the edge of his suppressed laughter, and he pressed his advantage. ‘Come on, angel, he was rubbish, you know he was. How hard can it be to take payment and write down a delivery address for a new mattress?’

‘Well…’ Aziraphale struggled to find a charitable reply, and gave up. ‘Shopping isn't what it used to be. Now that there are these… department stores.’ He pronounced the words fastidiously, as though holding something unpleasant at arm’s length. ‘Incomprehensible layout, terribly unflattering lighting, and you always come out having spent more than you meant to– oh.’ He looked at Crowley, his expression melting into amused resignation. ‘Oh dear. I should have realised.’

‘Yeah.’ Crowley grinned, the demon part of him wriggling in delight. ‘I was on a roll that month.’

After leaving the bedroom department of Selfridge's Crowley had driven them not back to the bookshop but instead down to St James' Park. Gone were the days when fashionable society would come to take the air, to see and be seen, but there was a reassuring familiarity to strolling about with Aziraphale at his right elbow, talking about everything and nothing.

But when Aziraphale diffidently tucked his hand into the crook of Crowley’s right arm, Crowley tripped over his own feet. This was new.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Aziraphale said, as Crowley righted himself in time to avoid stepping on a duck. ‘Are you alright? I only thought that… I mean, since we’re… but of course we don't have to if you—’

‘Nah, it’s fine.’ Crowley caught Aziraphale’s retreating hand before it could slide away entirely, and pressed it awkwardly into place. ‘I don’t mind. If you want to.’

It wasn’t the most enthusiastic reply but Aziraphale at least stopped trying to slide his hand away. Crowley adjusted his stride to match Aziraphale’s and tried to look casual, but it was difficult when he had no eyes for the sun or the plants or for anything save the gentle curl of angelic fingers, pale against his black jacket.

He had no idea how long or where they walked, but when Aziraphale slowed then the gentle pressure on his arm had Crowley’s steps pausing before he registered where they were.

The long trailing branches of a willow tree, flowerbeds in the background giving a splash of colour out of the corner of his eye, and a long-ago memory stirred: a bright May morning, everything full of life and joy, yet Aziraphale in tears despite it all.

‘The trial,’ Crowley said quietly.

‘You came for me.’ Aziraphale smiled at him, and there was more in that smile than Crowley could parse: old sorrow, and affection, and regret. ‘I was so upset, and you came for me. Even after our fight, after those unkind things I said.’

‘Of course I did. I'll always come for you.’ And he had worried Aziraphale might turn away from him.

Even now, the memory stung. Aziraphale weeping as though his heart would break and Crowley helpless to fix it, when the humans had insisted on destroying someone for loving the wrong person.

Aziraphale turned to him and Crowley, with an effort, blinked away the super-imposed image of Aziraphale in tears and looked at him. Aziraphale tilted his chin up slightly, his expression a mix of hope and uncertainty, and safe behind his glasses Crowley stared at him in confusion. What was he waiting for?

And then the world turned about him, giddily, as Aziraphale touched his fingertips to Crowley’s jaw and murmured, ‘Darling.’

A kiss. He was waiting to be kissed; now, after everything, there was no reason not to, was there? And Crowley ducked his head to turn his cheek into Aziraphale’s palm and watched Aziraphale light up with happiness.

Aziraphale’s mouth was soft, and warm. Angelic, in fact, and smiling as Crowley kissed him. It was everything he had ever dreamed and that had seemed so far out of his reach, for so long, and yet the hairs on his nape lifted at doing it out in the open, where anyone might see.

Tension gripped his spine, but Crowley cupped Aziraphale’s jaw in his hand and kissed him for as long as he could bear before he had to raise his head and suck in a strangled breath, his gaze flicking everywhere all at once.

The park was calm, just a few humans making for the exits in the waning afternoon, couples packing up their picnic hampers. And in front of him, Aziraphale. Looking just-kissed and so soft and happy that it almost hurt to look at him.

‘Oh Crowley,’ he sighed. ‘Oh my dear.’

‘Yeah.’ The sound that emerged was almost a croak and Aziraphale’s smile faded slightly, his brows pinching.

‘Are you alright?’

‘Pff, course I am.’ Crowley turned his head, as though it could make Aziraphale stop looking at him like that. ‘You?’

‘Oh yes.’ And when Crowley risked another glance at him, he looked it: so quietly happy he almost glowed. ‘So..’ Aziraphale’s fingers curled against Crowley’s jaw, silently asking for another kiss, and Crowley tried not to grit his teeth as he let Aziraphale guide his chin around and down.

Ridiculous to be so tense about it, never mind that they were standing just yards from where they had both been snatched up by their sides, and Crowley – bound and helpless – had watched Hastur deal Aziraphale a blow that must surely have split his scalp, although Aziraphale hadn’t mentioned it later.

Crowley shut his eyes and his hands crept to Aziraphale’s waist, curling into the folds of his overcoat, grasping and clinging like the heat-seeking animal he was. He blinked, eyes opening briefly, and when Aziraphale broke away to sigh against his mouth, and give him a conspiratorial, delighted smile, Crowley couldn’t help the corners of his own mouth turning up. Impossible to stop it, when he was the focus of a happy angel, and when Aziraphale leaned in for another kiss Crowley tucked two fingers under his chin and tilted his head and gave a last glance around over Aziraphale’s shoulder–

–and straight into Gabriel’s eyes.

He stood under the next tree along, staring straight at them, and it was like getting a thousand volts straight through the chest; Crowley leapt out of Aziraphale’s arms, and shoved Aziraphale behind him.

‘What…’ Aziraphale stumbled, grabbing Crowley’s arm to steady himself. ‘What are you—’

‘Stay behind me.’ Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s forearm and dug his fingers in, not relenting at Aziraphale’s pained gasp. No time to swap bodies again, so if they wanted Aziraphale then this time they would have to kill Crowley to get at him.

‘That _hurts_.’ Aziraphale’s arm twisted, but Crowley hissed and tightened his grip, digging his nails in.

‘Don’t let go.’ He risked a glance away from Gabriel, over his shoulder. Aziraphale met his eyes with a look of utter confusion. ‘Hang on to me. No matter what.’

‘But why? What on earth are you playing at?’

No time to explain, and Crowley looked back–

–to find Gabriel nowhere in sight. Instead, under the same tree, there was only a human. Tall, with broad shoulders and brown hair, well-dressed in a pale grey overcoat and with a leather satchel slung over one shoulder. Crowley blinked but the human stayed the same and he looked around wildly. ‘But…’

‘What are you looking at?’ Aziraphale peered over his shoulder. ‘Is it him? He’s been there the whole time, didn’t you see him?’

Thank Hell Aziraphale couldn't see his eyes, they were yellow edge to edge and wild. ‘But he… I thought…’

This time, when Aziraphale twisted his sleeve out of Crowley’s grip, Crowley let him go. ‘What did you think he – oh bother.’

Crowley turned to find Aziraphale frowning over his coat sleeve and the four neat holes puncturing it, and he hissed under his breath. He curled his fingertips into his palm to melt his emerging talons back into blunt fingernails, before reaching out and gently stroking his palm along Aziraphale’s sleeve, miracling the holes shut.

‘Oh.’ Aziraphale’s annoyance melted into a smile. ‘Thank you.’

Crowley shrugged silently. It had been his fault, after all.

‘Now what’s wrong?’ Aziraphale looked into his face intently, and Crowley turned away, fighting to keep his expression impassive.

‘Nothing. I just… didn't realise he was there, s’all.’

‘Well.’ Aziraphale sounded confused, and Crowley could hardly blame him. ‘Now you know he is.’

But when he tried to put his arms around Crowley, Crowley tensed and stepped back.

‘Crowley?’

‘We probably shouldn’t. Out in public.’

Aziraphale’s eyebrows raised, but he said only, ‘Oh?’

‘Yeah. You know. Where anyone can see.’

He couldn’t say more than that. Not to Aziraphale, who had only just stopped looking over his shoulder and begun to stand straighter, as though a weight had been lifted from him.

But Aziraphale looked confused. ‘But what’s wrong with people seeing? I don’t think he – or any of them – look as though they… you know. Mind.’

Crowley grimaced. They had both seen enough persecution, over the centuries, and now he had reminded Aziraphale of Oscar’s trial all over again, it was plain in the downturned corners of his mouth.

‘Come on, let’s go for dinner.’ Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand, squeezed it awkwardly, briefly, before dropping it. ‘My treat. Italian? That little place near your bookshop?’

‘Bocca di Lupo?’ As Crowley hoped, this raised a smile. ‘Oh yes, let’s.’

Aziraphale loved the place for their linguine alle vongole – the best outside Naples, he always said. Crowley loved them because, since their first visit, the staff had assumed they were a slightly eccentric gay couple, and there had always been a candle on a quiet table for two where they could talk late into the night.

‘Lead the way then, angel.’

As they left the park Crowley flexed his shoulders, trying to ease the strain of wings that ached to spring into being and mantle possessively, protectively, around the angel leading him.


	6. Now

The redbrick grandeur of St Pancras station looms over them and Crowley only barely restrains himself from hissing at it. It hardly seems possible that they were here a week ago, for that wretched Paris trip, with Aziraphale fluttering in happy anticipation next to him.

Crowley ought to have known better than to agree to Paris, he’s never had any luck with the city. Their previous time there, in the middle of the revolution, ended on a sour note; he should have known better than to hope another visit would be any different.

Crowley pointedly ignores the signs for Eurostar departures and turns instead to the domestic platforms, struggling under the weight of their luggage and the Fortnum & Mason's hamper. He’s used a discreet miracle to lighten his own case and the hamper, but Aziraphale’s case seems oddly resistant to any modification. Crowley silently bares his teeth at Aziraphale’s back and curses the stubbornness of angels. One silly misunderstanding, and now he has to all but kidnap Aziraphale and shut him up in a remote cottage at the other end of the country to get him to listen. And be damned to that promise Aziraphale extracted of not mentioning it; they’re talking about it even if Crowley has to tie him to a chair.

The sleeper train to Inverness sits humming and ready for departure and their first class compartment, when they find it, is rather more plush than the others. But if Aziraphale notices he gives no sign.

‘Well, here we are.’ The note of false cheer in his own voice makes Crowley cringe. He’s a demon, he isn’t _supposed_ to be cheery. ‘This is ours. I’ll just stow this and be right back.’

He leaves Aziraphale with their cases and drags the hamper along to the luggage van.

A week’s worth of food and wine weighs a surprising amount. He could have miracled it all – themselves, luggage, and food – up to the other end of the country, but Aziraphale loves train journeys; he could have booked them into a lavish five-star catered hotel, as Aziraphale appreciates luxury, but the photos of the open fireplace and squashy sofas in the cottage had looked like the sort of thing Aziraphale would also love. Not to mention that if they’re going to have a flaming occult row then the last thing they need is a hotel full of humans on the other side of the door.

A Côtes du Rhône and two glasses are sitting on top of the hamper’s contents, and Crowley fishes them out and makes his way back to their compartment. If Aziraphale will at least have a drink with him then perhaps he’ll soften and listen to reason, and Crowley can explain that it hadn’t been what it looked like. That the human had been drunk and grief-stricken and Crowley had been a poor stand-in for the one he really wanted, and in the moment Crowley couldn’t pretend not to know how that felt.

But he opens the door – ‘Angel, what do you say to a Côtes du—’ – to find Aziraphale has changed into his pyjamas and is climbing into the top bunk.

‘Oh.’ Crowley, brought up short, holds up the wine. ‘I thought we could… if you fancied… nightcap?’

‘No, thank you.’ Aziraphale scrambles up the last rung and quickly gets under the blankets. ‘I’m rather tired.’

_Liar. You don’t get tired._ Crowley bites back the words, and instead says, ‘Not even a small one?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Aziraphale fusses with the blankets, pulling them modestly up to his chin so that not even the smallest sliver of flesh shows, and Crowley’s grip very nearly snaps the stems of the wineglasses.

Bugger this. He drops the wine on to the bottom bunk and surges forward, grips the edge of Aziraphale’s bed. ‘Angel—’

‘No.’ Aziraphale knows exactly what he’s about to say, and cuts him off. ‘No. I don’t want to talk about it. We agreed. You promised.’

Crowley snarls through his teeth. A promise extracted under duress is no promise at all. ‘But it’s making you miserable—’

‘ _No_.’ Aziraphale’s eyes hold a dangerous glint and he tenses beneath the blankets.

Crowley wouldn’t put it past him to change his mind, decide Crowley has broken the terms of their agreement, and miracle himself back to his bookshop. Aziraphale is enough of a bastard to actually do it, and so Crowley subsides – ‘Fine, then,’ – and Aziraphale exhales cautiously.

When Aziraphale turns over to face the wall, his fussing with the blankets makes them pull free of the mattress to expose his feet. Crowley stares. Aziraphale has lovely feet: pale and high-arched and soft, with delicate blue veins and perfect pink toenails. Crowley wants to wriggle into the same bunk to curl protectively around Aziraphale and push his own scaly toes against Aziraphale’s warm soles, while Aziraphale squirms and complains about how cold they are. He wants to lie end to end in the same bunk and fold Aziraphale’s bare feet inside his pyjama jacket, warm them against his stomach while Aziraphale reads Tennyson to him and they get steadily pissed on the best of Fortnum & Mason's wine cellar.

But in the end he only twitches a fold of blanket over them and tucks it in. ‘Sleep well, angel.’

Despite his worries, despite the pointed silence from the top bunk, the rocking of the train and the warmth of the compartment combine to lull Crowley into a drowsy stupor. It’s not proper sleep. He daren’t: sleep means dreaming, and the last thing he needs right now is to wake half the train with his screams, and Crowley twitches himself awake each time he begins to slide into deeper sleep. But he manages enough of a half-waking doze, for he blinks and there’s the faint grey light of dawn leaking around the edges of the blind.

It's far too early to even contemplate being awake, and at a sour glance from Crowley the blind seals itself more tightly against the window until he has to remove his sunglasses and blink, pupils expanding. He winds himself into the blankets on the bottom bunk and stares at the underside of the top bunk, where there’s not the slightest sound to betray whether Aziraphale is sleeping, or staring wakeful into the darkness.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Aziraphale loves long-distance rail travel, he has ever since its Golden Age: the changing scenery, the sense of luxury, and the human ingenuity in fitting all the necessities into the small compartment.

In the early 1900s he had even shut up the bookshop and spent several months riding joyfully back and forth on the Orient Express while Crowley covered his duties in London. Crowley had indulged him, a touch amused at Aziraphale’s rapture and glad that Aziraphale had found something to make him smile again, for he had been subdued ever since Oscar’s death.

So this journey feels intrinsically wrong, with the pair of them in separate bunks and Aziraphale feigning sleep he doesn’t need. They were supposed to both squash into the same bunk, with Crowley pouring the wine and Aziraphale reminiscing about past journeys.

When the light seeping through the blind is too bright to ignore, Crowley gives up. He unfolds himself from the bunk and stands, stretching. In the top bunk Aziraphale is either asleep or doing a far better imitation of it than Crowley would have believed possible, and he stares at the rounded curve of Aziraphale’s shoulder before turning away.

The guard is at the end of the carriage. Breakfast service isn’t due for another half-hour, but Crowley looms over him and extracts a cup of tea. And – after several meaningful comments about his partner’s low blood sugar – a couple of biscuits. He could have miracled it but it doesn’t taste the same; he’s heard Aziraphale complain about it enough times to know that even a cup of railway tea is preferable to something pulled from raw firmament.

Back in their compartment Aziraphale’s breathing is lighter, and Crowley folds down the small shelf for the cup and saucer. And then, because Aziraphale is right there, and he’s soft and warm and so lovely, and because he’s all that Crowley has wanted for so long now, Crowley’s traitorous hand creeps out and strokes the backs of his fingers down Aziraphale’s cheek, feather-soft.

‘Angel.’

Aziraphale stirs. There’s the faintest peach-down on the apple of his cheeks, too fine to be seen but only felt, and Crowley’s fingers twitch in another caress. It seems he really is asleep after all. ‘Aziraphale.’

‘Hmm.’ Aziraphale sighs, tilting his sleep-flushed cheek against Crowley’s hand and Crowley can only watch, dumbly captivated, as Aziraphale’s eyelashes flutter and open.

He’s muzzy with sleep and Crowley is stupid with love for him, he swallows nervously as Aziraphale blinks at him and a slow smile curls his mouth, lovely as a sunrise. ‘Crowley.’

‘Hi. Um. Morning.’ Crowley can hardly speak, his other hand clutching a fold of Aziraphale’s blankets and his body yearning towards him. ‘There’s. There’s tea. I brought you. Er. A cup. It’s Assam, I think.’

‘Tea?’ Aziraphale echoes vaguely, as though he’s never heard of such a thing, and Crowley tilts his head towards the railway-issue cup and saucer but he can’t look away.

It’s clear the moment it happens, Crowley sees it plain as day. Like clouds rolling across the sun, Aziraphale recalls between one blink and the next that he’s not speaking to Crowley, that they’re at odds. His smile vanishes, his expression cooling, and he turns his face away from Crowley’s hand.

‘Oh,’ he says.

‘I thought… I know how you get,’ Crowley says. ‘After you sleep. When you actually do sleep. And breakfast is coming, in half an hour, but I thought you might like a cup of tea first. While you wake up.’

‘I see.’

There’s nothing more. Aziraphale doesn’t reach for the cup and Crowley, bereft of Aziraphale’s face to touch, curls his empty fingers lightly around the metal guardrail. Aziraphale sits up, rubbing his face; the blankets fall down around his waist and Crowley is treated to the sight of the baggy pyjama jacket Aziraphale has chosen for this trip, hiding his body. He grits his teeth.

‘There’s coffee,’ Crowley says, when the silence has gone on long enough that he wants to scream. ‘If you prefer. But I thought… well, you drink so much tea that I thought—’

‘You do confuse me, Crowley.’ Aziraphale rubs his face, looking newly awake, yet somehow still tired. ‘Blowing hot and cold like this.’

The sheer injustice of it leaves Crowley speechless and gaping, because Aziraphale has been the wind in his sails for many decades – centuries – now, and has steered him effortlessly along whatever course the angel chooses. But even as he splutters, ‘No, look, just wait a—’ Aziraphale clutches the sheets, draws them up to his chest, and announces, ‘I’d like to get dressed.’

And he doesn’t want to take his clothes off in front of Crowley.

‘Fine,’ Crowley says, between gritted teeth, stepping away from the bed. ‘Yeah, ‘course, I’ll just…’

He bangs out of the compartment to stand uselessly in the corridor, staring out of the window at the scenery rushing past and clenching his fist to contain the hellfire sparking at his fingertips.

The car hire agency has an infernal number of forms to sign – and Crowley isn’t even responsible, the humans came up with this process all by themselves – and they can offer him nothing even remotely close to his beloved Bentley. He curls his lip, half-wishing they had foregone the train and driven up the country instead, but this excursion is meant to be for Aziraphale and so Crowley bites his tongue and signs.

The luggage is soon loaded into the boot and Crowley looks for Aziraphale. He's wandered off to a rack of books on sale outside a WH Smith's shop, poking through the romances and pulp thrillers with a disappointed look. Crowley approaches cautiously. The sight of the books recalls the blasted coffee table book, bought at the book fair and squirrelled away in Crowley’s desk; a gift that looks increasingly likely to never be given.

‘If you’re ready, we could…’ Crowley’s words trail off and his hands hover uncertainly in the air between them, not quite daring to touch Aziraphale.

He gestures uselessly towards the waiting car and Aziraphale walks over and gets in before Crowley can open the door for him. Crowley says nothing, merely folds himself behind the wheel, points the car’s nose to the north, and drives away, into a sky of colourless grey.


	7. Then

_Crowley walked through an endless expanse of white. There was no horizon that he could see, no up or down, and no light source to cast shadows, only brilliant nothingness. There was the sensation that time hadn't started yet, and his body felt fresh and young; full of new life, as though he could walk the length of the equator and not feel it._

_Eventually the smooth whiteness under his bare feet changed to marble flagstones, and when the first trumpet call sounded it occurred to Crowley, belatedly, to look down at himself. As soon as he did he recoiled in shock, for it was obvious where he was._

_He was dressed in long white robes, with delicate gold embroidery around the hem where it fluttered against his bare calves. His feet were pale and unmarked, his toenails pink, and he flexed his toes experimentally: none of the dusting of scales that trailed along his insteps and clustered around the nailbeds. His hands and forearms were spattered with stardust and, on instinct, he raised a hand to his right temple and pressed trembling fingertips to the skin there. No snake mark, instead the swirled golden arms of a spiral galaxy. He was sure of it, but of course there was no way to check. No mirrors in Heaven._

_The trumpets sounded again and Crowley lifted his head, briefly distracted by the half-forgotten weight of long hair falling over his shoulder, to see other angels. They were all going somewhere, moving purposefully in the same direction, and Crowley silently fell in behind them._

_In the central courtyard the air was rank with fear, so thick with it he almost gagged, and when the hurrying angels joined the edge of a large crowd the reason was immediately apparent. In the middle of the crowd, a careful space all around them, stood a smaller group of angels, and at the sight of their leader Crowley’s stomach turned over and he hunched his shoulders, trying to disguise his height and the blaze of his hair._

_Lucifer; not as he was now, blistered and burned, but as he was when he was the Morningstar, brightest and most beautiful of them all. He faced an old woman, towering over her, her hair drawn back into a grey bun at her nape and her face tight with anger and sorrow. When she glanced away Crowley shrank still lower and dropped his gaze, hoping her attention would pass him by._

_There was no need to listen to their argument, and Crowley looked instead at the group of rebellious angels standing behind Lucifer. There was almost every expression on display: pride, trepidation, anger, fear, defiance, and even – for one or two of them – triumph. But his gaze was caught by a pale head at the back of the crowd._

_‘Aziraphale,’ he muttered under his breath. It couldn’t possibly be, and yet he’d know those curls anywhere; he’s spent sixty centuries looking for the angel in crowds, and the last two hundred years memorising him from every angle with the intensity of a lover. The unknown angel had his face turned away but he was twisting the hem of his robe between his fingers in a nervous fidget Crowley had first seen centuries ago. Crowley edged through the crowd towards him._

_What in Heaven’s name was Aziraphale doing standing with the rebels? Didn’t he know what was going to happen?_

_Raised voices from the front of the crowd, and Crowley sidled faster, his heart pounding in his throat as the brightness of Heaven dimmed and a hot wind blew out of nowhere, carrying the scent of pitch._

_‘I cast you out,’ God said, and the ground shivered beneath Crowley’s feet. ‘You have no place among us.’_

_And in front of Crowley’s panicked eyes the ground opened up and he watched the rebel angels fall into the dark, Aziraphale’s terrified face, his eyes finally meeting Crowley’s and his mouth open in a wordless scream—_

Crowley lurched awake and sat up in bed, gasping for breath, and had a moment of total disorientation. This wasn’t his bedroom: there was too much furniture, no faint scent of damp earth from the plants, and the light was too bright. His face and chest were wet with sweat, to his own nose he stank of fear and he wiped a shaking forearm across his forehead and stared bewildered at the floorboards by the bed where there should be smooth tiles.

A hand gripped his shoulder and he whipped around, fangs lengthening and ready to strike, but it was only Aziraphale, his face crumpled faintly in worry. ‘Crowley?’

‘Azzssiraphale.’ Crowley closed his lips and pressed his tongue against his incisors, willing them back into something vaguely resembling a human’s.

‘Is everything alright?’

Crowley blinked, and the unfamiliar surroundings resolved themselves into Aziraphale’s bedroom, in his tiny flat above the bookshop. It only took a moment to extend his senses downstairs: no angelic presence, and no infernal one. They were being ignored, at least for now, and Crowley muttered, ‘Yeah. Course.’

Aziraphale’s hand moved hesitantly from his shoulder to the back of his neck, and Crowley was briefly disorientated at Aziraphale's hand brushing his shorn hair. The cool, soothing touch to his exposed nape where there ought to be a tangle of long curls.

‘You’re positively boiling,’ Aziraphale said. ‘Oh dear.’ Crowley glanced back to see him repentant. ‘That’s my fault, I’m afraid. Too many blankets.’

Crowley looked down, at the tangle of bedding spread across his half of the bed.

‘You did seem to like them, though,’ Aziraphale continued, uncertainly, ‘and I remembered how you always seem to feel the cold—’

‘ ‘s fine, angel.’ Slowly, Crowley sank back down to the mattress.

‘Did you sleep well? Or is something troubling you? Only your. Ah. Your eyes, they’re…’

He trailed off delicately, and Crowley grew conscious that his eyes were full yellow edge to edge, almost bulging from his skull. He turned away. ‘Sorry. Just need a moment.’

‘Darling, no, I only meant—’

Aziraphale tried to touch his face but it was too much, suddenly, to have Aziraphale all over him when he’d barely pulled himself together from that nightmare and Crowley reached out with snake reflexes and grabbed his wrist, holding his hand at a distance. Aziraphale fell silent, and Crowley belatedly softened the gesture with an awkward squeeze of Aziraphale’s fingers.

‘What are you doing up here, anyway? I thought you’d have been checking all your books are back in place. Don’t tell me you’ve decided to give sleeping a go.’

‘No. I had thought that we… that you might want to…’

Odd for Aziraphale not to have a retort on the tip of his tongue and Crowley turned to him, noticing for the first time that Aziraphale was naked beneath the covers.

Oh.

How foolish of him. Even an idiot could have predicted what Aziraphale would want, from the pink-cheeked tousled look of him. And Crowley ought to have expected it, after last night: he had walked Aziraphale home after dinner, and Aziraphale’s offer of a nightcap had turned into kissing on the sofa, and then much more kissing in the large bed upstairs, and this morning it didn’t take a demon to sense the desire pouring off Aziraphale.

‘Oh. I… um...’

Crowley fumbled for something to say but it was too late, Aziraphale’s wrist was already sliding gently out of Crowley’s grip even as Aziraphale dropped his eyes and murmured, ‘Yes. Well, I suppose that now you, um, mention it then. Hah. Yes, I really ought to go and see to the… to the inventory.’

He withdrew, self-consciously twitching the blankets up around himself and reaching for his dressing gown to shrug it on before he left the bed, and Crowley, coward that he was, watched him go. Aziraphale was safe, he was in his bookshop surrounded by his beloved books, and safe. Not falling off the edge of Heaven, his white feathers coming away in handfuls as the wind rushed past.

But the pink of his cheeks had deepened to the dull red of embarrassment and there was a heaviness to his step, a droop to his usually perfect posture that had Crowley sitting up and speaking before he knew what to say. ‘Angel.’

In the doorway, Aziraphale turned. ‘Yes?’

A shaft of light fell through the bedroom skylight and lay across him, turning his eyes a lighter blue. It highlighted the gentleness in his face, making him look like the angel he was, and Crowley swallowed. ‘Let’s go out.’

‘Oh?’ Aziraphale’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Where?’

Crowley shrugged. ‘Anywhere. Breakfast, maybe? That place in South Kensington you like. My treat.’

‘Mmm.’ A hint of a smile, and Aziraphale seemed to perk up a little.

‘Or further. There must be something you want to do.’

‘Well…’ When Crowley swung his legs out of bed, twitching a corner of the sheet across his groin, Aziraphale quickly turned to fiddle with the books on the bookshelf by the door. The tips of his ears were red.

‘There’s a book fair in Chelsea,’ he told them, keeping his gaze fixed on them while Crowley wriggled into his jeans and buttoned his shirt. ‘Antiquarian and rare books. And I had thought of going but, well…’

_But it’s not your sort of thing. But you won’t care for it. In fact you’ll be bored out of your mind._

Crowley heard everything Aziraphale was too polite to say and, just to be contrary, he said, ‘Sounds good.’

Aziraphale’s head jerked around to stare at him. ‘Excuse me?’

‘You heard.’ Crowley flicked his sunglasses on and bared his teeth in an approximation of a grin. ‘Come on, angel, let’s go.’

The fair, it turned out, was in a large conference centre that was nothing like Crowley’s expectations. Rather like Aziraphale himself, who often failed to live up to his pink and gold, fluffy, angelic exterior, the event was based in a sleekly modern space that Crowley would otherwise have walked straight past.

Crowley parked near it – gleefully ignoring the designated parking area to leave the Bentley squarely on double yellow lines – and listened to Aziraphale tell him about an auction last year where he was outbid on some obscure incunabulum.

‘You could have just…’ Crowley waggled his fingers pointedly.

‘It didn’t seem sporting,’ Aziraphale said vaguely, almost evasively.

Crowley smirked. ‘Tried and failed, did you?’

‘Now really. As if I’d – oh Crowley, look.’

It was a cheap attempt at changing the subject and Crowley was about to tell him so until a glance at Aziraphale’s face – gone all soft and sentimental and wistful – made him stop in his tracks.

‘There.’ Aziraphale nodded towards a bus stop billboard for the Royal Opera House’s production of Romeo and Juliet. ‘It seems only last year that was opening at the Globe. Do you remember?’

‘Depressing rubbish,’ Crowley grunted. He shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to walk past.

But Aziraphale was still dawdling. ‘Burbage played Romeo, do you remember? And there wasn’t a dry eye in the house by the end.’

Crowley snorted dismissively. ‘Pair of young idiots. If they will go about falling in love with the wrong people then they’ve only themselves to blame when it all ends in tears.’

Aziraphale looked reproachful. ‘You don’t mean that.’

Enough of this, Aziraphale would stand around doe-eyed over it all day if Crowley let him and so Crowley walked ahead and swept the door open.

‘Come _on_ , angel,’ he shouted down the street, ‘let’s go. Or they’ll have sold out of all those copies of _Fifty Shades of Grey_ you said you wanted.’

It worked. Aziraphale tore himself away from the advert and hurried red-faced to the door to push Crowley, sniggering, ahead of him into the building.

‘You fiend,’ Aziraphale was muttering, ‘you absolutely incorrigible _serpent_ , we agreed never to speak of that book.’

‘Demon,’ Crowley pointed out, as Aziraphale huffed and fussed with his cuffs. ‘Incorrigibility is in the job description.’

He hadn’t forgotten The Great Publishing Rant of 2011, and was prepared for a reprise, but Aziraphale only gave him a sharp look and strode on ahead.

The fair was full of Aziraphale lookalikes: cardigans and thermoses of tea and benevolent smiles that concealed the hearts of rapacious bibliophiles, with a level of greed and cunning that would have put the entire fourth circle of Hell to shame.

‘Looking for anything in particular?’ Crowley asked, as they reached the first stalls and Aziraphale’s determined stride turned less purposeful.

‘Not really.’ Aziraphale’s ruffled feathers had smoothed in the presence of so many old books, and Crowley wandered docile in his wake as Aziraphale drifted along.

He was sufficiently fluent in Aziraphale’s noises that when Aziraphale paused by a volume and said, ‘Oh,’ Crowley stopped. And when Aziraphale said, ‘Hmm,’ and picked it up, Crowley wandered off. That second noise meant the angel had seen something he wanted but needed to review; he wasn’t moving any time soon, and Crowley drifted towards a table of large art books.

Anthony J Crowley was a meticulously curated composition, assembled piece by piece over the centuries as the humans invented new things and Crowley considered them carefully to decide whether the human he pretended to be would own a slashed velvet doublet, or pocket watch, or widescreen television. The Kindle had been a mistake; he’d ended up gifting it to Aziraphale, who still used it as a paperweight. But perhaps Anthony J Crowley could be the sort of human who owned coffee table books. Heavy, glossy, expensive ones, and Crowley poked at a stack of them.

The top one on the stack was on trilobites and he flicked through it, smirking. Silly little things, but it was inevitable that the dinosaur team would get bored of churning out massive bones and endless rows of sharp teeth. Crowley tucked the book under his arm.

The next book was religious art through the ages, but it contained rather too many portraits of Gabriel and Michael looking smug, and Crowley sneered and pushed it aside. The third was a collection of art inspired by the works of Shakespeare, and Crowley perked up. This was more like it. In fact it might even do as a gift for the angel, and Crowley turned the pages carefully.

One or two he recognised: Macbeth's witches, and Miranda watching the shipwreck. A few from the more gloomy ones that made him hiss under his breath: Antonio from _The Merchant of Venice_ gazing after Bassanio, and Hamlet dying in Horatio's arms. Aziraphale would love it, though, and then Crowley turned the next page and froze.

The title was _I all alone beweep my outcast state_ , and the figure depicted was an angel. But not a triumphant angel, all golden halo and white robes, hefting a flaming sword in smug righteousness. This one was kneeling on rocky ground, naked, its white wings curled about its body as though ashamed, and handfuls of white feathers scattered all around. Its wingtips had begun to stain black and the angel had one hand out, gripping the wing white-knuckled as though it could arrest the relentless progression by sheer force of will. The other hand covered its face but it was still possible to make out its expression, frozen in the purest display of tear-streaked misery Crowley had ever seen.

A human touched his elbow, wanting to get past, and Crowley sucked in a strangled gasp. Breathing was optional, but just at that moment his human body felt as though it was about to pass out.

In the painting the angel’s feet, clean and perfectly shaped, were slowly changing to heavy cloven hooves and Crowley brushed his thumb over them. Aziraphale’s feet had been warm, as they lay together in bed on the night the world didn’t end. He had pressed them against Crowley’s – not flinching from his serpent’s chill, or the feathering of black scales along his arches – and looked at Crowley with his heart in his eyes.

Crowley lifted his head and scanned the crowd, suddenly needing viscerally to see Aziraphale alive and unharmed. He was nowhere in sight and so Crowley paid for the books and stalked off, following his vague sense of the angel.

Aziraphale would be fine. Of course he would be fine, Crowley would have felt it if either side had snatched him away, but nevertheless he walked quickly through the crowd until he saw Aziraphale’s pale head.

There he was. And not only was he safe, he was arguing with a bookseller about a volume he held, haggling over the price in his politely insistent way.

Crowley drew closer and stared at Aziraphale, struck with a sudden urge to change to his snake form and twine himself about Aziraphale’s throat. He could be very small, and very still, and lie just beneath Aziraphale’s shirt collar; he could loop his body around Aziraphale's warm neck, rest his head in the hollow between his collarbones, and draw in the scent of old books and cologne with every breath.

The weight of his gaze was too much; Aziraphale turned and looked straight at Crowley. No surprise, when they had spent centuries circling each other carefully, and Crowley gave an awkward half-wave and sauntered over.

When Aziraphale turned back to his conversation, Crowley used a discreet miracle to put his purchases in the boot of the Bentley. If Aziraphale saw them he’d want to look through them and the idea of Aziraphale coming face to face with that picture of the fallen angel… no, Aziraphale didn’t need to see that. Crowley would carefully tear it out before he gave the book to him.

‘Hello.’ Crowley brushed a hand along Aziraphale’s forearm, ignoring the human entirely. ‘Seen something you like?’

Aziraphale – there really was no other word for it – lit up under the caress, his eyes sparkling and his face radiant. ‘Hello, darling.’

It made something deep in Crowley’s chest go warm and melt, Aziraphale looking at him with such love, and his expression was in danger of slipping into something soft and besotted.

He scowled, and cleared his throat. ‘Yeah, hi. What’s all this, then?’ He jerked his chin towards the books. ‘You don’t have enough already?’

‘Ah, but this one is rather special. Although it’s a bit expensive.’

This was directed to the bookseller, who shrugged. ‘It’s the market price.’

‘But madam, a copy in much better condition than this fetched only £100 at auction six months ago.’

For the first time, Crowley had a good look at Aziraphale’s nemesis. She was old, her hair gone entirely silver and her face lined, but her back was straight and her eyes sharp behind her glasses. Didn’t miss a trick, Crowley would bet.

‘Then go to auction,’ she said, polite as anything, and reached out to take the volume from Aziraphale’s hands.

Aziraphale’s fingers twitched, as though he would reach after it, but he drew himself up. ‘I could stretch to £200.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t accept less than £400.’

Aziraphale’s nostrils flared slightly, a sign of extreme angelic disapproval. ‘My good woman—’

‘But he wants it,’ Crowley interrupted, watching Aziraphale watch the book as it was carefully wiped and replaced in pride of place. ‘And you want to sell it. Or—’ he gestured at the bookstall with a faint curl of his lip, ‘–are all these just for decoration?’

Aziraphale gripped his forearm in a warning squeeze. ‘Crowley—’

‘The price isn't negotiable,’ the woman repeated.

‘But,’ Aziraphale seemed to be winding up again, ‘it’s really not indicative of the quality of the binding—’

‘Done,’ Crowley interrupted.

Aziraphale made a shocked noise. ‘ _Not_ done. Why—’

‘Done,’ Crowley repeated, reaching into his jeans for his credit card.

Aziraphale was drawing himself up in indignation. Crowley could almost see his wings ruffling and fluffing up, tucked safely in their pocket dimension, and he turned to Aziraphale and added, ‘My treat, angel. You can thank me later.’

That ought to have been enough. Crowley had intended to make Aziraphale blush with the overt implication that he had a rich lover doting on him and buying him overpriced... Crowley glanced down and nearly hissed in disgust. Another sodding Bible, for fuck’s sake, how many did an angel need?

Before Armageddon, Aziraphale would have grown flustered at the mere implication that the two of them even knew each other, let alone anything more. But now he only murmured, ‘Oh. Well then. I suppose if you insist,’ and looked down, his cheeks pink. Crowley stared at him.

‘We don’t take cards,’ the bookseller said, bursting the bubble around the pair of them.

Crowley pulled his gaze from Aziraphale and glared. This woman was worse than Aziraphale, which hadn’t seemed possible, and he reached into his pocket again for a roll of banknotes that hadn’t been there when he put his trousers on that morning, or even two minutes ago. It needed a certain amount of hip wriggling to retrieve them, and Aziraphale’s gaze caught and lingered around his belt buckle even after Crowley had handed over the money.

While she was writing out the receipt, Crowley glanced at Aziraphale. Even under torture he’d never openly admit to seeking Aziraphale’s approval but he was hardly subtle: treating Aziraphale to books and meals and lifts across London, just for that moment when Aziraphale would look at him with that smile.

But now Aziraphale wasn’t smiling up at him, gone soft and glowing with gratitude, quietly delighted at being made a fuss of. Instead he was watching her and frowning lightly, distracted, and when the package was handed over he thanked her vaguely and walked off, Crowley trailing in his footsteps.

‘Thank you, my dear.’ Aziraphale waited for him to catch up and tucked a hand into the crook of his elbow. ‘It was very—’ he caught himself at Crowley’s warning noise, ‘–that is, I like it. Very much indeed.’

‘Good,’ Crowley muttered.

‘You do spoil me.’

Crowley said nothing, letting Aziraphale steer them through the stalls.

‘Everything you’ve done,’ Aziraphale continued, into the silence. ‘Over the years…’

‘You deserve it,’ Crowley said at last. ‘To have what you want.’

‘Yes.’ Aziraphale bit his lip. ‘Only you do know you don’t need to… well, protect me. Don’t you.’

‘What?’ Crowley, surprised, glanced at him. Had Aziraphale forgotten those times when that had been exactly what he needed? Although, if pressed, Crowley would have to admit that the Bastille had been more of a rescue from a mountain of paperwork than mortal peril–

‘I mean, you do worry,’ Aziraphale broke into his train of thought. ‘You always have.’

Crowley was stunned into silence. On some level he hadn’t expected Aziraphale to notice; the angel had always seemed oblivious, head in his books, while Crowley was the one circling him, watching both their backs, ready with a flask of holy water and a fast car.

‘But we’re free now,’ Aziraphale said. ‘We can do as we please.’

‘Yeah,’ Crowley muttered. ‘Suppose we can.’

It wasn’t true, of course. Crowley knew all about the mercy and compassion of Heaven, or the lack thereof, and Aziraphale hadn’t seen the looks on their faces at his execution. It would be just like them to let enough time pass for Aziraphale to relax, think he was safe, before snatching him up. Or making him Fall.

The painting of the fallen angel came to mind, and Crowley repressed a shudder. He’d take another holy water bath before he let that happen. Or before he off-loaded all this onto Aziraphale, now that the angel had finally stopped looking over his shoulder and had a new lightness to his step.

‘And so,’ Aziraphale said, ‘since we can do what we want…’

He tugged Crowley to a halt, gripped his elbow to turn him, and leaned in to kiss him. Right out in the open, where either of their sides might be watching, and Aziraphale’s lips had barely brushed his before Crowley flinched away.

Aziraphale withdrew, a flicker of hurt there and gone so quickly Crowley could almost believe he’d imagined it.

‘I see.’ Aziraphale looked around at the humans buying, selling, browsing, going about their short lives and none of them concerned with two middle-aged gay men having an affectionate moment in the middle of it all. ‘Crowley, it’s not that sort of crowd. No-one cares if we—’

‘Yeah. I mean, no. I mean.’ Crowley blew out a breath. ‘All the same, though. Best not, eh.’

The background chatter of the humans seemed very far away, with the pair of them locked into their bubble of silence, Aziraphale’s eyes searching Crowley’s face while Crowley hunched his shoulders and tried to hide behind his sunglasses.

‘No,’ Aziraphale said at last, with an unconvincing smile. ‘Well, as you say. Perhaps best not.’ He turned away. ‘Come on, then.’

There were more books to look through, more purchases to be made, and Crowley followed Aziraphale and silently offered an extra pair of arms when Aziraphale's books threatened to spill out of his own hold. But the sparkle had gone out of the day, somehow, and when Aziraphale stopped, barely halfway through the room, and said, ‘I think this is enough, don’t you?’ Crowley hadn’t the will to argue.

‘Alright.’ Crowley shifted his armful of books. Aziraphale had been careful not to hand him the bible, but the weight of secular texts was making his arms ache all on their own. ‘Where to now, then?’

‘I thought perhaps we might pick up some lunch, go back to the bookshop, and open a bottle of that Laphroaig you like.’ Aziraphale loaded a few books from Crowley's arms into his own. ‘Since you've indulged me all morning.’

Aziraphale smiled up at him with disarming sweetness, and Crowley couldn’t stop himself returning it.

The bookshop was cool and dim, looking and smelling just the same as it always had, as though Crowley had never seen it go up in flames. Aziraphale set out the food and poured the whisky, but then he pottered about, carefully arranging his new books on his desk amid the clutter. He seemed to have something on his mind, and Crowley watched him from his sprawl on the sofa, safe behind his dark glasses and already nose-deep in his third drink.

Aziraphale’s store of whisky had been carefully amassed over time; there were some bottles in there so perfectly aged that it was as close to Heaven’s nectar as a demon like him would ever get, and that made him melt back into the sofa in alcoholic bliss. But not today. Tension hummed beneath his skin, and his incisors kept trying to lengthen into fangs. He caught himself staring into the shadows, sense pricked for any sort of celestial surveillance, and buried his nose In his glass again. He turned his attention back to Aziraphale. ‘Something on your mind, angel?’

‘Hmm.’ Aziraphale was looking down at the new bible, stroking the cover with his fingertips.

‘What’s so special about it, then?’ Crowley asked. ‘You’ve got a whole bookcase full of Bibles.’

‘Ah, but not a copy of this one.’ Aziraphale nudged it a little further onto his desk. ‘This is Brown's Self-Interpreting Bible: it's not only in English but it’s illustrated. It allowed people to interpret the text for themselves.’

Crowley snorted. ‘Not that big on independent thought in Heaven, though, are they.’

‘I… oh. Well, no.’ Aziraphale blinked, coming out of his reverie, and turned to Crowley. ‘I suppose not.’

And Aziraphale’s gaze skated over Crowley’s flame-red hair, the tiny snake by his ear, but he said nothing more.

When he finally stopped his distracted fussing and came to sit down, it wasn’t to sink into his usual comfortable armchair. Instead he picked up his tumbler and sat rather deliberately on the sofa next to Crowley, who swallowed and shifted back slightly, opening up a bit of space between them. Aziraphale’s eyes flicked to it but he said only, ‘Well. There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask, actually.’

Of course there was, all that nervous circling. 

‘Go on, then.’ Crowley’s mouth was dry, his tongue a sandpapery rasp. ‘Spit it out.’

‘Yes.’ Aziraphale looked down, turned his glass in his fingers. ‘I wondered what it’s like. You know.’ He glanced up at Crowley from the comer of his eyes. ‘Falling.’

Crowley couldn’t speak, his throat locked up tight. Unbidden, the picture of the fallen angel flashed into his mind, perfect in every stained feather and lick of hellfire. But overlaying it were the memories of his own Fall: the heat burning his beautiful white feathers away, mouth full of blood from his split, questioning tongue – and the images from his dreams of Aziraphale looking at him, sad and bewildered, blue eyes starting to turn black at the corners.

‘Only you’ve never spoken of it. Not once in all the time I’ve known you,’ Aziraphale continued, his confidence draining away into the well of Crowley’s silence, ‘and I want to… well, I want to know you, my darling. In all ways. Everything about you.’

Aziraphale’s words trailed off and he looked at Crowley, eyebrows lifted slightly, hopeful and unsure in equal measure. It was a look that had worked hundreds of times before, but this time Crowley’s throat closed and his stomach roiled as though the half-bottle of whisky would come back up.

He gulped. ‘I don’t… I mean. I… I’m not sure I really…’

The room wavered at the edges and Crowley closed his eyes. Too much whisky, too quickly. But the visions that danced behind his eyelids – the bookshop burning, Aziraphale’s gold and white fading to a dirty brown as his Grace left him – were worse and he opened his eyes with a strangled noise.

‘But we don’t have to speak of it,’ Aziraphale said quickly. ‘Forgive me, my dear. It was an impertinent question. Let’s just… sit here for a while.’ He offered Crowley a tentative smile. ‘Unless you’d like to… perhaps…’

And then he sidled closer to put his hand on Crowley’s thigh, looking up at him from under his eyelashes, and Crowley snapped.

‘Actually there’s a… a thing.’ Crowley leapt to his feet. He stumbled a little when the room revolved around him, and he caught himself on a bookcase and concentrated until some of the alcohol left his bloodstream. ‘A thing that I have to do. Very important… thing.’

‘Oh.’ Aziraphale looked disappointed, but hid it the next instant behind a polite smile. ‘Of course you do. I’m sure I’ve kept you far too long already.’ Aziraphale fiddled with his watch chain, looking down. ‘But perhaps afterwards, if you wanted, you could—’

‘I’ll see you around,’ Crowley interrupted, rather than let Aziraphale voice the invitation he’d have to decline. He tried for a casual wave that looked more like a flail, and then jammed his hands firmly into his jeans pockets. ‘Bye.’

And, without waiting to hear Aziraphale’s response, Crowley fled.

On the drive back to Mayfair, he cursed himself, and Below, and Above. Especially Above. Because they had killed the children in the Flood and they had been ready to kill billions of humans and destroy the world; they had shoved Aziraphale into hellfire without hesitation, and if Aziraphale thought they wouldn’t seize this excuse – fornicating with a demon, wallowing in Lust – to make him Fall then it was because he was still too sweetly hopeful about Heaven, too ready to think the best of everyone. Crowley had no such restraint.

It was almost unbelievable they had got away with things as far as they had, it wasn't worth pushing their luck. Not when weighed against the consequences for Aziraphale; if anything happened to the angel Crowley would never forgive himself.

Crowley stalked into his flat and through to the bedroom, ready to sleep. With an irritable fingersnap he banished the wall hanging and the bookcase he had miracled up for Aziraphale, when they were lying in bed during their first time together and Crowley, drunk with love, had recklessly promised the angel anything he wanted. How was he supposed to give him this without it costing him everything?


	8. Now

The cottage is only supposed to be a couple of hours’ drive from Inverness station but Crowley gets lost and has to pull over to consult the map on his phone. He tries driving faster to make up lost time but Aziraphale starts to look faintly green as they slalom around bends and he has to slow down again.

Usually the drive wouldn’t be a hardship: as the miles fall away and they get farther from the city, the signs of civilisation slowly vanish until it’s nothing but rolling moors and heather as far as the eye can see, with the sky above them a perfect pale blue, clear as crystal. Like when the earth was new-made, when the angel on the wall had held his wing over Crowley instead of smiting him. Crowley had still been angry at that point, his burned wings still smarting, too full of spite and resentment to have any kinder feelings towards any of Heaven, much less dream that one day he might eventually fall in love with one of them. But he had spared a moment to wonder at him, this gentle soul who was so unlike the others.

Reminiscing makes him miss the turn-off, and when he realises fifteen miles later Crowley swears, stops in the middle of the road, and makes an awkward five-point turn. It would be easier if Aziraphale would condescend to navigate, but when Crowley dares to look over Aziraphale is staring determinedly out of the passenger window and Crowley grits his teeth and says nothing, biting back all the excuses that want to tumble forth.

_It’s not what you’re thinking..._  
_I know what it looked like, but you don’t understand..._  
_Look, angel, if you’d just let me **explain**..._

He’s always appreciated Aziraphale’s streak of bastardry and stubbornness, but it’s less amusing now that it’s directed against him.

It seems as though they’ll never arrive, but at last they sweep through a village and then, five minutes further along the road, Crowley turns off along a gravel track and comes to the cottage. It’s pretty as a picture: white walls and thatched roof, nestled into the south-facing slope of a hill and sheltered enough that the climbing rose around the front door is in full luxuriant bloom. The front door is painted a bright red, with a polished brass knocker gleaming in the sunshine, and Crowley pulls up into the drive and says, ‘Well, here we are,’ with a note of artificial cheeriness that makes him cringe.

Aziraphale stares at it and says nothing.

The car is far too small for Crowley’s long legs and he gets out and stretches as he walks around to Aziraphale’s door, but before he gets there Aziraphale has already opened it and stepped out. He looks at the cottage, his face carefully impassive.

‘Well then.’ Crowley claps his hands together brightly, and then immediately wishes for the ground to open up and swallow him. ‘Shall we have a look inside?’

Even Aziraphale won’t be able to hold on to his icy reserve when he sees the interior, Crowley is confident. He chose it especially with Aziraphale in mind: the living room is wall to wall bookcases, with squashy sofas and tartan blankets. There are elegant little end tables perfectly positioned to hold a cup of something, and several floor to ceiling windows that give a marvellous view down the valley.

But Aziraphale only gets as far as the gate before baulking, like a horse digging in its heels and refusing to budge. Crowley approaches him, stretching out a hand but not quite daring to touch. ‘Angel?’

‘I think I’d like a drink,’ Aziraphale says slowly, still eyeing the front door as though it’s a portal to Hell. ‘After the journey. And lunch. There looked to be a nice little pub back in that village we passed through.’

After coaxing Aziraphale from his shop, getting the train tickets, enough food to feed an army for a week, and driving all this way with only minor infringement of traffic laws – which hardly counts – Crowley had never imagined that Aziraphale would refuse even to look inside.

When Aziraphale, in the face of Crowley’s silence, turns and starts walking back towards the village, Crowley stirs. ‘Alright. Yeah, sure, we can have a drink. Hop in, I’ll drive.’

In the car, before starting the engine, Crowley turns to Aziraphale. ‘Look, we need to talk about—’

‘No.’ Aziraphale stares out the front window, his jaw set. ‘We don’t.’

‘But—’

‘No.’ Aziraphale glares briefly at him. ‘You made yourself quite clear. I was _humiliated_.’

Crowley hisses under his breath. ‘You weren’t. You had – you _have_ – nothing to be—’

‘Don’t.’ Aziraphale’s upraised hand silences him effectively. ‘If we’re not going to go for lunch, then I’d like to go home.’

And when Aziraphale sets his mind to something like that then there's no budging him, and Crowley mutters, ‘Fine. Let’s go, then.’

The pub is small and cosy, and the barman immediately endears himself to Crowley by not even blinking when Crowley slithers up to the bar and orders two double Scotches for himself. Aziraphale asks for a gin and tonic, and then turns towards a snug by the fire that has miraculously become free.

‘So, this is your plan, then,’ Crowley asks, a bit helplessly, watching Aziraphale settle into an overstuffed armchair and pull out a book that Crowley could have sworn he didn’t have in his pocket a moment ago. ‘Just… sit around and drink all day?’

‘Yes.’ Aziraphale turns a page and doesn’t look up. ‘You can’t pretend we’ve not done it before.’

It’s been many years now since Crowley started to orbit Aziraphale like a planet circling its sun, and so he says, ‘Well, that’s… right then. Fine,’ and sinks into the opposite chair, pulling out his phone and settling in with the eternal patience of a snake watching its prey.


	9. Then

After fleeing Aziraphale’s shop Crowley went home and fell into bed. Aziraphale’s question had shaken him out of his habitual poise, this indication that Aziraphale was even contemplating Falling, and he burrowed under the blankets, needing the respite of a brief dive into oblivion.

He needed a longer sleep – saving the world really took it out of a body – but he couldn’t leave Aziraphale alone for that long and he set his alarm for the following morning.

But instead of the darkness of deep sleep, Crowley fell into light.

_White space, arching white stones and spires rising impossibly high, as though in sheer joy at their own existence, but this time Crowley wasted no time admiring any of it, or looking at his own hands and forearms all spattered with stardust. This time he turned and began walking to the main square, straight away, and he was at Aziraphale’s side before God and Lucifer had even begun to raise their voices._

_‘Aziraphale.’ Crowley sidled up to him but found that he could only go so far, as though there was an invisible, impermeable boundary drawn around the angels in their circle. ‘ **Aziraphale**. Look at me.’_

_Aziraphale turned. ‘Hello.’_

_He looked… off. His white robe wasn’t so pristine, and the white-blond curls of his hair looked dull. He seemed faded, somehow, as though the vibrancy of Heaven’s colours was already leaching from him._

_‘Come here.’ Crowley pushed past the resistance to reach across the boundary and pluck at Aziraphale’s sleeve. ‘Come away from this.’_

_The other angels looked defiant, even angry, but Aziraphale only seemed resigned. ‘I can’t.’_

_A shout from the front of the crowd, Lucifer bellowing defiance at their Creator, and Crowley’s stomach clenched. Not much longer now._

_‘You can.’ He kept his voice calm – no sense in frightening Aziraphale – but couldn’t hide the urgency. ‘Just step out of the circle. You don’t belong in here.’_

_‘But I do, though, don’t I? I’ve been judged and found wanting,’ Aziraphale told him, even as the ground trembled._

_Crowley’s fingers clenched tight in his sleeve. ‘Rubbish. You’re perfect, why would you fall short?’_

_Aziraphale looked up at him and a sliver of ice went through Crowley’s chest. His eyes were starting to fade from their wonderful, brilliant blue and – Crowley squinted – a small but growing stain of black was beginning at their outer corners._

_‘You know why.’ The shouting at the front of the group was louder now but Aziraphale’s voice cut through it._

_An ear-splitting crack sounded as the ground opened up; Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s hand in sudden fear and Crowley startled at the icy grip of his fingers._

_‘No.’ Crowley was already shaking his head, sick with fear. ‘No, no, no, you can’t... I never meant to make you… look, just step away from this, come away with me—’_

_But it was too late: Aziraphale was cold, his Grace draining away from him, and as the crack arrowed its way towards Aziraphale Crowley tightened his grip on Aziraphale’s arm. It was no use: Aziraphale stumbled and fell, and though Crowley clung to him with all his strength Aziraphale was being dragged downwards by more than his own weight. Something was pulling him down and when Aziraphale cried out in pain Crowley’s grip slackened involuntarily, fearful of tearing Aziraphale’s arm straight out of its socket. In a blink he was gone, falling, white feathers streaming out behind him and Crowley hung over the edge and screamed his name—_

‘Aziraphale!’ Crowley lurched upright, sheets tangled around his legs, almost tipping out of bed. He hadn't even taken off his clothes before sleeping and his shirt was sweat-soaked, clinging to him as he clawed it off. He closed his eyes, sucking in gulps of air, until the vision of Aziraphale – sad and fading – made him open them again with a queasy noise.

He rolled out of bed and raised his hand, ready to fingersnap himself clean and dressed, and paused. Heaven’s ozone scent was still ghostly faint in his nostrils and the stink of his own fear clung to his skin. He needed a real, human shower, with hot water and lots of expensive sandalwood soap, and he turned towards the bathroom.

His subconscious was hardly subtle. Those pricks upstairs would like nothing better than to make Aziraphale Fall for this, but the thought was unallowable. Aziraphale _loved_ being an angel. He lit up when he sensed love, he was forever folding blessings into forgotten scarves to reunite them with their owners, and into five pound notes handed over for cups of tea (with the change waved away), and he was always using frivolous miracles to smooth the edges of the short, sharp lives of humanity. Crowley couldn't take that from him.

There must be a way to have both; Crowley would think of it eventually if he could only concentrate, but the memory of Aziraphale’s face, when Crowley had fled the bookshop yesterday, nagged at him until he dressed and grabbed his phone and wallet.

He stopped twice en route, once at a florist’s and once at a chocolatier’s. Aziraphale liked things that were genuine; things that not only looked nice but also smelled and tasted nice, and Crowley stalked through the rows of sweetly scented blooms, pulling one from this bucket and one from that to assemble a bouquet. He made the florist wrap it twice before he was satisfied, and then unwrap it to add a further spray of myrtle, and then laid it carefully on the passenger seat as he drove to Aziraphale’s preferred chocolatier for a box of his favourites.

The bookshop sign was flipped to “Closed” when Crowley pulled up outside, but the doors sprang open for him just as they always had. The air inside was still, dust motes twirling in a silent waltz in a beam of sunlight, and Crowley blinked away the aftertaste of fire and blind panic. ‘Aziraphale?’

No answer but the angel was here somewhere, Crowley could sense him, and he walked deeper into the shop until he turned a corner and found Aziraphale reading, a feather duster abandoned on the shelf next to him.

He was so lost in it that it took a moment for him to register Crowley’s presence and lift his head, blinking in surprise. ‘Crowley?’

The sight of him made Crowley melt, and he coughed and gave an elaborately dismissive shrug. ‘H’lo. Was in the area, thought I’d stop by.’

‘How nice to see you.’ Aziraphale smiled at him tentatively. ‘I confess I hadn’t expected to, after you… That is, I thought you might still be… you know. Busy.’

Small wonder he was confused, when just last night Crowley had fled the bookshop so precipitately, and Crowley hovered there, tongue-tied, until Aziraphale’s gaze dropped to his hands.

‘Oh yeah.’ Crowley shook himself. ‘I picked up a couple of… I mean, I was passing, and I thought I may as well… not that I wouldn't have gone out of my… I mean, here.’

To shut himself up Crowley closed the distance between them and laid the bouquet gently in the crook of Aziraphale’s arm, giving the flowers a meaningful little dig in their stems until they breathed a cloud of perfume into Aziraphale’s face. He inhaled, and his expression softened into something that made Crowley go weak at the knees. ‘Oh my dear, they’re lovely.’

‘And here.’ Crowley thrust the box of chocolates at him, trying not to stain the cream velvet or blue satin ribbon with his sweaty palms. ‘I thought… I was passing, like I said. And I don’t know what’s in there. Could be horrible.’

‘ _Darling_.’ No mistake, Aziraphale was glowing now, so pleased it was shining from him; despite everything Crowley stood straighter, preening slightly. Aziraphale set the flowers and chocolates carefully on his desk before stepping closer to put his arms around Crowley’s waist. ‘You do spoil me.’

Crowley relaxed into Aziraphale’s hold, and before he reply Aziraphale continued, in a rush, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You're sorry?’ Crowley echoed, puzzled.

‘For yesterday. For asking about… that.’ Aziraphale bit his lip, penitent. ‘It was insensitive of me, no wonder you ran off.’

‘I didn’t run off,’ Crowley protested, but weakly. Aziraphale smelled warm and good, of his books and cologne and the Assam tea he had drunk that morning; Crowley wanted to tuck his nose against Aziraphale’s collar and fall asleep there. ‘I told you, I had things to do.’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Aziraphale looked down, smoothing Crowley’s lapel. ‘Even so.’

Under the delicate, gentle motions of Aziraphale’s fingers, Crowley’s tension began to leach away for the first time since he’d woken. Perhaps he could tell him. Aziraphale had spent six thousand years worrying about Heaven and the repercussions of their friendship, but then again he had been the one to suggest – to insist on – exchanging bodies and defying their respective headquarters. Perhaps Crowley could tell him; it would take away all his newly carefree zest for life, but perhaps Aziraphale would think of a way to keep himself from Falling over this.

Crowley drew a deep breath. ‘Angel…’

‘I’ve had an idea,’ Aziraphale said, looking at Crowley with bright eyes. ‘I think we should go away together.’

Crowley paused, shunted off-course. ‘Go away together?’

Was it possible that Aziraphale was still fretting, and considering Alpha Centauri? Crowley touched his thumb gently to Aziraphale’s downy cheek, considering how best to tell him that perhaps he wasn’t wrong to be worried.

‘Yes. I thought we could have a… a holiday. We’ve never really had one.’ Aziraphale smiled, tentative, and behind his sunglasses Crowley actually blinked. It was true, but then again what on earth would either of them have done with a holiday? It wasn’t as though they had proper jobs to take holidays from.

‘And quite a bit has happened recently,’ Aziraphale went on, in the most enormous understatement. He waved a hand at the destroyed and restored bookshop, before replacing it hesitantly on Crowley’s waist. ‘And… and… well. Things have changed.’ The faintest touch of pink along the tops of Aziraphale’s cheeks. ‘And I thought we could both use some time to… well, get used to it.’ He looked up at Crowley, uncertainty and hope mingled in his face. ‘Would you?’

Crowley had never been proof against that expression. ‘Why not. Haven’t got anything else on.’

‘Oh, wonderful.’ Aziraphale’s smile was radiant. ‘I’ll arrange tickets.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘I thought Paris. I’ve not been there in ever such a long time.’ Aziraphale paused, looked down again, and his fingers crept up to fiddle with the end of Crowley’s scarf. ‘And it’s supposed to be… you know. Romantic.’

Crowley stared at Aziraphale’s bowed head, his dismay hidden behind his sunglasses. Paris, where he had kissed Aziraphale once, years ago, and Aziraphale had recoiled, He had spat Crowley’s kiss from his mouth as though it were poison, and reminded Crowley of why he, Aziraphale, could never do such a thing with a demon. It was hardly going to take his mind off his current worries.

‘But of course,’ Aziraphale said slowly, looking into Crowley’s face, his hands falling away from Crowley’s scarf, ‘we don’t have to if you’d rather not. I just thought it might be nice, but…’

Aziraphale had dealt with a lot over the past fortnight. He had faced down Heaven, finally admitted to himself that they didn’t care about Earth or the humans and hadn’t for a very long time; he had chosen Crowley – finally, after Crowley had waited so patiently for so long. He had lost his beloved bookshop and been discorporated in a messy and extremely painful fashion; and he had gone to bed with a demon – for which there would certainly be repercussions at some point. And he had faced it all bravely, never whining or complaining. Crowley was lost in admiration for him.

So fuck it, if Aziraphale wanted to go to Paris, then Crowley would set his jaw and follow him to Paris.

‘No, yeah,’ Crowley said at last, and ventured to give Aziraphale’s waist a little pat. ‘Paris sounds great.’

‘Oh, lovely.’ Aziraphale smiled, and then stepped out of Crowley’s arms. ‘Now I must put these flowers in water.’ He nodded towards the top of bookcase next to them. ‘Darling, could you?’

Crowley obediently reached up, with his extra few inches of height, and fetched down an opalescent vase.

‘Thank you.’ Aziraphale took it gently from him and made to leave, but at the last minute he paused. ‘I think I interrupted you, earlier? Was there something you wanted to…?’

Crowley hesitated, but shook his head. Now that he had agreed Aziraphale was full of happy anticipation about Paris, there was no sense in spoiling it. ‘Nah. ‘s not important, angel.’

\----------

Once Crowley had agreed, the arrangements fell into place with miraculous speed. Apparently they were to leave at once, that very afternoon, and Crowley was sent home to pack. Never mind that he miracled his clothes up daily, Aziraphale was so very fond of doing things the human way that Crowley went home to pull some clothes out of the firmament and stuff them into an expensive distressed leather holdall he didn’t own ten minutes previously.

Aziraphale was coming to collect him in a taxi that would take them to St Pancras, so Crowley had nothing to do save water his plants and mutter vague and unspecified threats of what would happen to any backsliders on his return.

The doorbell rang, and Crowley snapped his fingers to open it, wrist-deep in a last-minute addition of some enriched compost to a philodendron.

‘Hello, I – oh dear.’ Aziraphale walked into the plant room and looked fretful. ‘You’re not ready—’

‘I’m ready, I’m ready,’ Crowley interrupted. ‘Thirty seconds. My case is packed and right there, look.’

‘Ah yes.’ Crowley could very nearly see, in another dimension, Aziraphale’s ruffled wings smoothing flat. He turned back to the plant and reached for the watering can as Aziraphale continued, ‘In that case, while you’re doing that, I might just… you see, I always think a bookcase without any books looks so forlorn, so I thought that since I was coming over I might take the liberty of bringing a small selection.’

It took a few seconds for Crowley to remember what he had done to the bedroom; he dropped the watering can and sprinted after Aziraphale but he was too late, Aziraphale was frozen in the doorway with books in his hands, looking between the empty wall where the bookcase had been, and the empty side of the bed missing his nightstand.

‘ ‘s just a thing I was trying,’ Crowley said quickly. He glanced at Aziraphale's face and saw the shock slowly fade into carefully impassive neutrality that was, somehow, even worse. ‘I forgot to put it back.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘There, look.’

‘No, no.’ Aziraphale’s voice was horribly, falsely, polite, and somehow more excruciating than any amount of sarcasm or sharpness could be. ‘I do understand. It’s hardly suited to your aesthetic, really.’

‘But—’

Aziraphale had already turned away. ‘Forget I mentioned it.’

‘Look, I only—’

‘Come along.’ The books went back into the bag, and Aziraphale wouldn’t look at him. ‘We really oughtn’t to keep the driver waiting.’

‘Sod the driver, listen, I—’

But Aziraphale was halfway down the hallway and Crowley spat a curse under his breath, miracled his hands clean, and picked up his bag to follow.

The drive to St Pancras was conducted in heavy silence, with Crowley darting anxious looks at Aziraphale’s profile as Aziraphale stared out of the window, but by the time they boarded the Eurostar and the attendant handed them a glass of wine Aziraphale had recovered something like his usual good spirits.

‘I booked us into the Ritz.’ Aziraphale nibbled on a goats' cheese tartlet, and Crowley silently nudged his own tray over to Aziraphale. ‘A bit extravagant, I know, but it’s supposed to be lovely.’

He smiled tentatively at Crowley. The afternoon sun slanted through the window at just the right angle to catch in his hair, turning it into a halo, and Crowley blurted, ‘You’re lovely.’

It was hardly Shakespeare, but Aziraphale smiled and turned pink, and Crowley added, ‘And I’m sorry about the bookcase. I do want you to bring your books over.’

Aziraphale’s smile faded. ‘It’s alright. I know they’re not really your style. A bit slow and fussy and old-fashioned.’

It was true, but before Crowley could think of a rebuttal Aziraphale scooped up a bite of tartlet on his fork and waved it under Crowley’s nose. ‘Now here. Tell me what you think of this.’

And, cowardly, Crowley let Aziraphale feed him and steer them away from the subject.

The Ritz was, as promised, lovely. Crowley eyed the large pot of luxuriant feather palms in reception and circled Aziraphale while he dealt with their check-in, and turned back as the clerk slid a room key across to Aziraphale.

Crowley waited expectantly for his own. Hopefully Aziraphale would have at least thought to request rooms on the same floor although he shouldn’t grumble: it was already an unprecedented luxury to be staying in the same establishment, rather than having to draw lots for the only acceptable inn the town had.

When nothing was forthcoming Crowley raised his eyebrows at the clerk. He was good-looking, in a dark-eyed and lithe way that reminded Crowley of some Greek shepherd lads he’d known, and he returned Crowley’s gaze impassively. Or nearly so; his eyes flicked down and up in a subtle once-over, catching somewhere around his belt buckle.

‘My room key,’ Crowley said pointedly, shifting his hips.

He held out his hand, but the man only blinked. ‘I gave them both to Monsieur.’

‘You—’

Crowley turned to Aziraphale, whose face indicated he’d seen the young man’s appreciation and wasn’t amused. ‘I’ve got them both, now come on.’

The journey in the plush lift was tautly silent, and when Aziraphale stopped outside a door Crowley waited for Aziraphale to turn and hand over his own key card. But Aziraphale unlocked the door, walked inside, and then turned to look at Crowley loitering in the doorway.

‘Aren’t you coming in?’

‘Er, sure.’ Crowley walked in, sinking into the plush carpet. ‘So, this is your room.’

‘Yes.’ Distracted, Aziraphale drifted over to look into the bathroom, a small smile curling the corners of his mouth at the enormous bathtub and pile of fluffy towels, and then looked back sharply at Crowley.

‘And I’m staying…’ Crowley prompted, just as Aziraphale said, ‘ _Our_ room.’

‘Ah,’ said Crowley, his stomach executing a dizzying roll.

‘That is.’ Aziraphale paused in the bathroom doorway, his smile fading. ‘I assumed you’d want to share… but I know we’ve never, in the past, so I…’ He looked down, fidgeted with his waistcoat. ‘I’m sorry, I should have asked, let’s just pop back down to reception and get you a—’

‘No,’ Crowley said quickly, even as a large part of him insisted that yes, that would be safer, that was exactly what they should do. It wasn’t worth that look on Aziraphale’s face, nothing was. ‘This is fine. It’s lovely.’

He walked over to the window, acutely conscious of the long black line he made among all the tasteful cream and gold. So utterly out of place.

Aziraphale came to join him. ‘Really?’ Aziraphale’s voice was quiet, and he addressed his words to the window in front of them. ‘If you don’t like it… or you’d rather not… I know all this isn’t really, you know, your style. We could—’

‘It’s fine.’ Reassuring Aziraphale when he got that fretful look about him was second nature by now. Crowley had been doing it since the Arrangement was brand-new, and long before he fell in love, and it made everything feel comfortingly familiar.

‘Only these past few days,’ Aziraphale continued, halting but determined, visibly nerving himself up to say it, ‘you’ve not seemed yourself.’

He left a silence, waiting, and Crowley sighed deeply.

‘Well…’ He paused, searching for the best way to tell Aziraphale that, on reflection, they probably oughtn’t to be doing what Aziraphale had so clearly brought them here to do. But as he assembled his sentence, there was a knock at the door.

It broke the quiet spell around the pair of them: Crowley stepped away from Aziraphale automatically, reflexively putting distance between them. Aziraphale’s mouth tightened and he walked to the door with a distinct lack of angelic grace.

‘Wait,’ Crowley blurted, even as Aziraphale gripped the doorknob, ‘don’t, it might be—’

But too late, the door was open and Crowley strode across the room to step in front of Aziraphale, tense in anticipation of Gabriel, or Michael. Aziraphale leaving England would surely have set off an alarm somewhere; Aziraphale had been the angel of England before there even _was_ an England, back when it was a squabbling collection of local chieftains.

Out in the corridor there stood, instead of righteous archangels, the young man from reception holding their cases.

‘Monsieurs.’

‘Oh. I thought… I mean, we expected the porter,’ Crowley said haltingly, as Aziraphale stepped out from behind him.

‘I wanted to enquire personally if everything is to your satisfaction.’ His gaze skated past Aziraphale and spoke to Crowley.

He was so young. All humans seemed young of course, to an immortal, but this one – with his unlined face and his body only barely finished filling out with muscle – seemed even younger. And yet, as his gaze slid down and caught on Crowley's open shirt buttons, he was old enough to know something of the world. Crowley parted his lips slightly to inhale. Yes, there was no mistaking the particular tang of a human’s lust.

‘We’re fine, thank you.’ Aziraphale’s tone was sharp, and the young man nodded. He dropped his eyes and carried the cases in, the tartan and the sleek black looking entirely unmatched.

Throughout it all Crowley stayed silent, and when the human had left Aziraphale turned to him. ‘What were you about to say, before we were interrupted?’

‘I…’ Crowley looked at him, more thankful than usual for his glasses to hide behind.

Aziraphale was ruffled at the interruption, the slightest bit fretful. How could Crowley tell him that the angels were going to absolutely _incinerate_ him once they caught up with them? Better that he should relax and enjoy this weekend while Crowley thought of a plan. He would fix it. He always did.

‘Can’t remember. Mustn’t have been important.’

Aziraphale frowned. ‘No, really, I’m sure you—’

‘Nah, s’nothing. Now come on.’ Crowley made himself reach out to take Aziraphale’s hand, acutely conscious of the enormous double bed behind them, and of what couples usually did on romantic weekends away in Paris. He had never felt less like seducing an angel in his life.

He gave Aziraphale’s hand a little squeeze. ‘Let’s go out somewhere.’

As expected, Aziraphale’s gaze darted to the bed and his expression flickered, but the next instant it smoothed away and he smiled. ‘Of course, darling. Where shall we go?’

The endearment made Crowley’s ears burn, and he said the first place that came to mind. The first place he always thought of when he thought of Paris, his home for most of the reign of Louis XIII. ‘How about the Louvre?’

\----------

It left Crowley dizzy. It seemed only a handful of years since his brief residence at Louis XIII's court and now herds of tourists shuffled obediently through the rooms, their gleaming white trainers squeaking through corridors where Crowley's diamond-buckled heels once strode. And the endless series of paintings of Gabriel and Michael looking holy and smug left him twitching with the reflexive desire to incinerate something.

He thought he was hiding it well, until Aziraphale rested a gentle hand on his back. ‘Dear, shall we go elsewhere? This has been wonderful, truly, but you seem a little…’

‘Nah.’ Crowley waved a hand, forcing a smile. ‘I'm fine.’ Aziraphale said nothing, merely raised an eyebrow a fraction, and Crowley caved, thankful. He muttered, ‘But I mean, if _you_ want to go then obviously, yeah.’

They wandered through Paris, with Crowley silent and thoughtful and Aziraphale doing his best to carry on a conversation with himself. Until they passed the opera house and Crowley, acutely conscious of his own lack of participation, and that this experience probably wasn’t going quite as romantically as Aziraphale had hoped, caught Aziraphale’s hand.

‘Let’s go to the opera tonight. My treat,’ he added awkwardly.

‘Oh.’ Aziraphale was all surprised pleasure. ‘Oh Crowley, really?’

‘Sure. It’s _The Marriage of Figaro_ , you like that one.’

Of course Aziraphale liked it: it was three hours of true love holding fast in adversity, of lovers united, thinly veiled disguises that wouldn’t fool anyone, and flimsy plots. It could have been tailor-made for him – and quite possibly had been, Aziraphale had certainly spent enough time in Vienna in the late eighteenth century, and Crowley had some private suspicions.

Aziraphale beamed, and Crowley basked in the angel’s delight. ‘Are they really? I can’t see any posters.’

‘Saw one a couple of minutes ago,’ Crowley lied. They would be performing Figaro, even if he had to spend a few miracles to make it happen.

As it turned out no miracles were needed, beyond liberating a box with an excellent view of the stage, and that evening they settled in, the lights dimmed and the orchestra launched into the overture, and Crowley relaxed for the first time since Aziraphale had announced this trip.

The whole afternoon had felt uncomfortably exposed, wandering about shoulder to shoulder with Aziraphale; occasionally arm in arm, when Aziraphale was feeling bold. But under the cover of darkness it was easy to imagine – to hope – they weren’t being watched, and when Aziraphale let his hand sit casually on the arm of Crowley’s chair, Crowley even ventured to cover it with his own. The resulting smile from Aziraphale was worth the inward squirm of unease.

Afterwards, they both turned by silent agreement away from the line of taxis. The night was mild, and they had walked together for years, centuries, before taxis had even existed. The familiarity of it was comforting, even, and when they stopped outside the hotel it took Crowley a moment to realise why Aziraphale made no move to enter but rather stood looking at him, standing close, his face tilted up a touch expectantly. When it dawned on him – the opera, the stars, the slow walk home with Aziraphale’s hand tucked into the crook of Crowley’s elbow; it was all so terribly romantic and now of course Aziraphale was waiting for a kiss – Crowley reeled.

‘A walk would be nice,’ he blurted, slightly panicked. ‘ ‘m not tired yet. And it’s a nice evening. Shame to waste it indoors.’

If he stayed out long enough then by the time he got back Aziraphale might be, well, not asleep, but perhaps lost in one of his books and Crowley could tiptoe in and go to bed unnoticed.

‘Oh.’ Aziraphale blinked, clearly wrong-footed, but smiled almost at once. 'It is a lovely evening, isn’t it. A walk sounds delightful.’

But no, this was wrong, Aziraphale was supposed to say goodnight and go inside and lose himself in his books and Crowley stumbled, before saying, ‘Er, yeah. Yeah, course.’

It had been no more than a second’s hesitation, but Aziraphale had seen it.

‘Or perhaps,’ he said slowly, his hand sliding away from Crowley’s elbow, ‘you didn’t mean for me to come.’

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s wrist to replace his hand before shoving his fingertips into his pockets and scowling. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I mean that?’

It lacked conviction, but Aziraphale at least didn’t call him on it, only fell quietly into step beside him as he turned towards the river.

They ended up on the Pont Neuf, with the moon reflected in the water below and the water whispering as it slid under their feet. It held an odd sense of deja vu – the bridge, the stars, Aziraphale pale and glowing at his right elbow – and the memory surged up to the surface at the same moment as Aziraphale whispered, ‘Do you remember?’

‘Do I remember…’ For a moment he almost couldn't breathe through the lingering pain of Aziraphale’s rejection, as raw as though it had happened yesterday. ‘Of course I do. I wasn’t sure whether you did.’

Aziraphale had never spoken of it. If he ever referred to that particular meeting it was always the sodding crepes, never Crowley's unwanted advances at the end of the night.

‘I remember,’ Aziraphale said quietly. ‘And I’m…’ he faltered, then turned to catch one of Crowley’s hands between his own. ‘I’m sorry.’

Safe behind his glasses, Crowley stared. ‘What?’

‘I didn’t… back then, I didn’t understand. I think perhaps I didn’t want to understand,’ Aziraphale looked so ashamed that Crowley's fingers tightened around his reflexively. ‘It was easier to look away. Pretend it hadn’t happened.’

‘Of course it was. You didn’t do anything wrong.’ At the time Crowley would have give anything to witness Aziraphale castigating himself, but it wasn’t as good as he had imagined.

‘And I was afraid.’ Aziraphale looked down, his voice soft. ‘For so long. Of what they would do if they ever saw us—’

‘Of course you were,’ Crowley said roughly. ‘And you were right to be. I wasn’t thinking properly, that night. If I had then I’d never have asked you for... that.’

Aziraphale twined his warm fingers through the gaps between Crowley’s chilled ones, and lifted his head to look into Crowley’s face. ‘I’m not afraid now.’

 _You should be._ sat on the tip of his tongue but Crowley swallowed the words back. ‘Well. That’s good.’

Aziraphale looked at him, his eyebrows raised just a fraction. On another night, centuries ago, a younger and more reckless Crowley would have taken the hint to kiss him, he would have pressed Aziraphale back against the balustrade to kiss him senseless, and then carried him off back to the hotel to fall into bed.

And now, with the Ritz's finest suite at their disposal and an entirely willing Aziraphale in his arms, Crowley could only think of how Heaven treated rebellious angels and brush the most chaste of kisses over Aziraphale’s lips before drawing back. Aziraphale sighed, tilting forward to lean against him; his head came to rest on Crowley’s shoulder and Crowley closed his eyes as his heart skipped in his chest. He pressed his cheek against Aziraphale’s hair. What he wouldn't do to keep him safe.

‘Shall we go back to the hotel?’ Aziraphale murmured, his breath warm on Crowley’s throat.

Crowley swallowed nervously. The hotel meant confronting the suite, and the bed, and either making feeble excuses about being too tired, or sitting Aziraphale down and spoiling his weekend by telling him that, really, having had time to consider all the ramifications, they probably shouldn’t be doing this.

‘Not yet,’ Crowley said, into Aziraphale’s hair. It smelled of his cologne, and Crowley settled his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and curled his fingers into the soft, well-loved fabric of his coat. ‘Give me a bit more time, angel.’


	10. Now

The pub is warm, thanks to the fire in the hearth – it may be still summer down in Oxfordshire, but in the north of Scotland then autumn is here – and Crowley sinks into his armchair and stretches his feet towards it with a long sigh. The heat soaks into his bones to leave him sluggish with relaxation and, even with Aziraphale pointedly silent in the opposite armchair, the tension slowly bleeds out of his shoulders and his eyelids grow heavy.

A small nap can’t hurt. He hardly slept on the train, and with his sunglasses on then Aziraphale will never even know, and he’s still debating the wisdom of it when he slides gently into sleep.

Except of course that it can't be just a brief, restorative nap, because nothing this week has gone how he planned it: he falls headlong into the dream that's been plaguing him and in no time at all he's hanging on to Aziraphale's arm, begging and pleading with him to come away with him, and he's still clinging when the ground shudders and gapes and Aziraphale's arm is torn from his grip—  


‘Crowley!’

Crowley’s eyes fly open and he sits bolt upright, heart pounding. It takes him a moment to remember where he is: not in his own bed at home, but instead in a leather armchair, in a pub in Scotland, and he heaves a shaky sigh.

There's a persistent sensation of ash clinging to his skin that he wants to brush away but Aziraphale is hanging onto his forearm, almost pinning it to the arm of the chair, and Crowley’s other hand is gripping Aziraphale’s wrist, so tightly that his claws have pierced four neat holes in Aziraphale’s sleeve.

‘Sorry,’ he says at once, letting go and quickly waving a hand to miracle them shut. ‘I’m sorry. Accident.’

But Aziraphale, for the first time in days, is looking straight at him. Staring, really, as though seeing him for the first time. ‘What on earth was that? Are you alright?’

it takes Crowley two tries to swallow but he manages it, although his mouth still tastes of soot and ash when he’s done. ‘Fine.’

‘Only you were…’ Aziraphale hesitates, ‘you looked in some distress. As though you were having a nightmare. And making. Er. A bit of noise.’

Crowley sits up and looks around. No-one is paying them any attention, they’re all concentrating on their drinks and their friends. Concentrating just a bit too intently, in face, and Crowley parts his lips and inhales, tastes the fading tang of an angelic miracle in the air.

He burns with embarrassment – ‘Sorry,’ – and nudges his sunglasses up his nose.

Aziraphale looks confused. As well he might: Crowley’s third apology in as many minutes.

‘What were you dreaming about?’ he asks.

‘You,’ Crowley says shortly.

Aziraphale’s face shutters. ‘Well. I’m sorry you found it so traumatic.’

And he retreats to his own armchair to pick up his book and hide between its covers as Crowley gets his legs under him and stumbles over to the bar to order another whisky.

Short of stopping time again there’s no way to spin their time at the pub out past the length of normal human hours, and at last when the last patron has left and the bar staff are starting to glance over at them, Crowley stirs.

‘Suppose we’d better get going.’

‘Hmm?’ Aziraphale looks up. ‘Oh. Yes, I suppose so.’

He’s been buried in his book all afternoon, although he doesn't seem to have got very far through it, and now he reluctantly puts it away.

‘I've got a nice Barolo back at the cottage, if you fancy a glass,’ Crowley offers. _See, angel? Nothing to worry about here, it’s just you and me. Like always._

‘Oh.’ Aziraphale’s face does something complicated before he gives a small smile. ‘Yes, I suppose that could be nice.’

It’s faint but it’s there, and Crowley exhales discreetly. Perhaps Aziraphale is getting tired of being annoyed with him. Perhaps it’s the gin and tonics he’s been steadily demolishing over the course of the afternoon and evening. Perhaps, if Crowley doesn’t rush too much, and if Aziraphale likes the wine sufficiently to have several glasses of it, Aziraphale might be ready to listen.

‘Well then. Off we go.’

He gets to the door in time to open it for Aziraphale, and likewise the car door, and ignores the doe-eyed looks from the bartenders watching him dote on his partner. He even drives at a steady pace the whole way to the cottage, as though he has a glass of water perched on the car roof rather than a slowly thawing angel in the passenger seat.

When they pull up outside the cottage the porch light is on: it didn’t exist that morning but Crowley is determined that the place should look cosy and appealing, and so it exists now. He gets out of the car and strides quickly around to open Aziraphale’s door for him. ‘I think you’ll like it inside. Lots of books, just your sort of thing.’

Aziraphale makes no reply and Crowley bites his tongue sharply, stemming the flood of nervous chatter ready to spill over, and instead he walks up the path and leaves Aziraphale to follow at his own pace. He carefully doesn't watch as Aziraphale approaches, feeling a bit like he’s luring a wild animal closer step by slow step, and by the time he’s rummaged among the flowerpots for the key Aziraphale is close enough that Crowley can open the door and usher him in. ‘After you.’

The cottage is exactly as it looked on the website: cosy and slightly old-fashioned and full of furniture that's been comfortably worn in over the years. Aziraphale doesn’t say anything as he looks at the hallway but Crowley fancies that his expression softens, just a fraction.

‘Go along to the end of the hallway,’ Crowley says. ‘Into the living room. I think you’ll like it.’

Discreetly he snaps his fingers so that the open fireplace will have a log fire crackling merrily, and the lamps will be casting a warm glow over the floor to ceiling bookcases. If Aziraphale notices the flicker of demonic power he says nothing, and when he walks into the room he even makes a small murmur of… well. It’s not the unrestrained delight Crowley hoped for, but it’s certainly a pleased-sounding noise and Crowley will take what he can get.

‘What do you think?’ Crowley asks. He stares hungrily at Aziraphale’s profile, ready to pounce on any crumb of softness.

‘Very nice.’ Aziraphale is prim, but there’s just a hint of a smile there as he looks again at the room. 'Very nice indeed.'

Crowley lifts his chin, not even trying to pretend he’s not preening.

‘Sit down, get comfortable– ’ he waves a hand at the sofa with its squashy abundance of cushions, trying not to look too eager, ‘– and I’ll fetch the wine.’

Instead Aziraphale wanders off to look out of the large window: this far north the end of the sunset is still burnishing the sky gold and pink, and the hills glow purple with heather.

Crowley has an extra swagger in his step as he leaves the living room. He opts to fetch the hamper from the car by hand, rather than miracling it in; he wants to tickle Aziraphale’s curiosity with the clink of bottles and jars, and the rustle of wrapped packages, and sure enough Aziraphale comes to investigate. He tries to pretend he’s not looking, though, and opens doors aimlessly while Crowley gets out two glasses and uncorks the Barolo.

Crowley grins to himself, where Aziraphale can’t see. This is going well, and he listens to Aziraphale investigate the bedroom, the dining room. He doesn’t go into the second bedroom, though, and Crowley freezes, his hand suspended in mid-air still holding the corkscrew because, now he thinks of it, he can’t quite recall where the second bedroom _is_. He doesn’t remember walking past it as they made their way to the living room, and he drops the corkscrew and yanks his phone out with a creeping sense of dread.

The cottage has two double beds and sleeps four, it says so quite clearly on the website. Except – and he shoves his sunglasses up on top of his head to squint at the fine print – except that the second double bed is the sofa-bed in the lounge.

Under his breath Crowley spits an infernal swearword that would make human ears bleed. He had admired the concept of fine print when the humans had first invented it, it had been far superior to any contracts Hell could dream up to bargain away immortal souls. But now he swears furiously until Aziraphale walks into the kitchen.

‘Crowley…’ He looks composed at first glance, but his hands fidget with the hem of his waistcoat. ‘It looks as though there’s only, er, just the one—’

‘I know.’ Crowley tries to look cool, suave, and fights the need to wipe his sweaty palms on his jeans. ‘Yeah, er, sorry about that, accident, I didn’t see when I booked. But don’t worry, the sofa in the lounge is actually a sofa-bed and I’ll have that, you can take the bedroom.’

And that ought to have fixed the issue, really. Aziraphale had been happy enough in separate bunks on the train journey, in fact he hadn't been able to get into his fast enough and it had been perfectly clear that Crowley wasn't invited to join him. But now his face quivers, then crumples and he looks away quickly.

‘What,’ Crowley says, his heart leaping into his throat. ‘Aziraphale, _what_.’

Aziraphale shakes his head; Crowley steps around the kitchen counter but Aziraphale is too quick for him and he’s out of the kitchen and at the front door before Crowley catches up with him.

‘Aziraphale.’ Crowley succeeds in grabbing a fold of Aziraphale’s coat and he clings tight, ready to pull the thing off him before letting him go. ‘What’s wrong.’

Aziraphale won’t turn to face him. ‘Nothing. I just… a walk, it’s a lovely evening, I’d like a walk.’

‘Bullshit.’ Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s arm and bodily hauls him around. ‘What is it.’

‘Nothing, really.’ Aziraphale may be facing Crowley but he won’t meet his eyes; Crowley tries to catch hold of his hands but Aziraphale’s manage to be just inches away from where they should be and his fingers close repeatedly on empty air. ‘It’s nothing. I’m being foolish. Silly. I thought you might have– But it doesn’t matter.’

‘Aziraphale…’ He looks desolate, as though his entire world is crumbling before his eyes, and Crowley reaches for him again. Even knowing it’s useless, he will never not reach for Aziraphale. ‘If this is about… Look, you know I… how I feel about you.’

Aziraphale drags his hands down his face and presses them to his temples, as though to contain knowledge that’s eating him alive from the inside. ‘I thought I did. But I must have been wrong. I’ve been wrong before about—’

‘You’re not wrong,’ Crowley says frantically but it’s too late, Aziraphale has turned away, shoulders slumped. He opens the front door and Crowley tenses.

‘Let me come with you.’

‘No.’

‘Angel, please.’ Crowley is begging, all his dignity gone and he doesn’t care. He trails after Aziraphale out the door and down the path. ‘It’s dangerous, if they come for you—’

‘No.’ Aziraphale isn’t listening, perhaps hasn’t even heard. ‘I want to be by myself.’

Crowley sets his jaw, determined to make Aziraphale listen. ‘But—’

‘ _No_.’

The word has the thrum of divine power behind it and it knocks Crowley back a step, breath punched out of him. It’s abruptly clear that Aziraphale was once a holy warrior of Heaven, clear in a way it usually isn’t with his gentle nature and absent-minded piles of books everywhere.

Crowley is still trying to muster an adequate response when, between one blink and the next, he’s left standing alone in the garden.


	11. Then

The next day went wrong right from the start. They woke to a cold, wet day – one of those days that promised autumn was just around the corner.

At least, Crowley woke; Aziraphale had sat up all night reading.

Last night he had been prepared, when they finally returned to the hotel, to make some excuse or contrive a situation that would see them both in separate beds, or at most tucked chastely side by side under the covers. But as it turned out it wasn't necessary: Aziraphale had been quiet on the walk back to the hotel, and in their room he gave Crowley a searching look before awkwardly patting his arm and saying, 'Goodnight, then.'

Not even a goodnight kiss on his cheek, and Crowley had curled up alone in the large double bed and stared at the opposite wall and wondered what Aziraphale was thinking. It had taken him a long time to fall asleep.

Now he stirred and stretched, and Aziraphale put a finger in his book to mark his place and looked up. 'Good morning. Did you sleep well?'

Not really, but Crowley temporised with, 'Nngh. Good book?'

'Oh, not bad.' Aziraphale carefully tucked a bookmark in and closed it. 'I thought we could order breakfast in bed, if you want. I know you're not fond of this weather.'

It was true. The cold and the damp made Crowley sluggish and irritable; he may look human but beneath the skin he was too much a snake to enjoy the rain. But the prospect of curling up next to Aziraphale in his soft tartan pyjamas, while he ate and made eyes at Crowley, was even less appealing. Crowley threw back the bedclothes.

‘Nah, let’s go out. It’s Paris, there must be places you want to see. I'll buy you breakfast somewhere.’

'Yes.' Aziraphale looked down at his book, patting its cover in a distracted sort of way. 'I thought you might say that.'

Crowley couldn't see his expression but his tone sounded odd, almost discouraged, and he tilted his head, trying to look into Aziraphale's face. 'Angel—'

'I'll leave you to get dressed, then.' Aziraphale stood, smoothed down his waistcoat, and walked over to the door. 'I'll be downstairs, when you're ready.'

After Aziraphale had left Crowley snapped his fingers to swap pyjamas for clothes, and cringed inwardly as he slid his sunglasses on his face. He couldn’t keep doing this to Aziraphale; as soon as they were back in London, he would sit him down for A Conversation.

On their way out the young man at reception stared at them curiously – doubtless wondering why anyone save _les Anglais_ would venture out in such weather – and by the time they reached the end of the street the rain had soaked through Crowley’s boots and they were both fractious.

‘I’d like to visit Notre Dame,’ Aziraphale said, out of nowhere.

Crowley gave him a sharp look, but raised his hand and the nearest taxi driver found himself making a U-turn to stop next to them.

‘Fine,’ he said, trying not to wonder what it meant that Aziraphale wanted to go somewhere Crowley couldn’t follow. ‘After you.’

Outside the cathedral Aziraphale walked unnoticed past the queue of tourists waiting to enter and slipped in through the tall oak doors, and Crowley watched his pale head until it was out of sight.

‘Right,’ he grunted. Even at this distance the ground was uncomfortably warm and he slunk off to find a café to sit and brood.

He started on coffee but after the first hour he switched to wine, letting the flavours roll over his tongue and distracting himself from the empty space at his right elbow by watching the humans in the café. There were all sorts there – tourists and locals, families and couples – but a faint thrum of something darker tugged at his attention until he turned his head, trying to place it.

There. A young man sitting alone at a secluded corner table, whose dark glasses couldn't disguise him weeping silently into his glass of wine, and Crowley concentrated on him. A love affair gone wrong. Ended. Not by the death of his partner, no, for at least in such cases, beneath the grief, there was comfort in knowing they had been loved until the end. Rejection: the man had been weighed and found wanting, and Crowley turned sourly back to his own drink. He of all people knew what that was like.

He drank his wine and tried to ignore him, but something about the scent of the man’s despair tugged at his memory. A faint flavour on the edge of his tongue, and unwillingly memory stirred and took him back to the fourteenth century. Acedia: a despair of the soul, a lack of joy in the world. Below used to count it as a sin, but Crowley grew increasingly uncomfortable including it in his quarterly reports: the more he saw of human civilisation over the centuries, the more he found cause for the even the best of them to despair, and few reasons for joy. Counting it against their immortal souls always felt too much like kicking the poor buggers when they were down. Somewhere around 1575 Crowley had quietly left it off his reports, upping his quota of Sloth instead, and heaved an inward sigh of relief when no-one asked about it.

He tried to ignore the low thrum of the man’s misery. It should be easy – after all, his purpose on earth was to sow discord and strife among the humans – and yet it wasn't.

His aim had only ever been mischief, not abject misery, and the man's despair got under his skin and nagged at him, like a glass set to ringing at its resonant frequency. It took him back to those awful hours last week when he had thought Aziraphale dead, and the last thing Crowley had ever said to him had been a promise to forget him.

Crowley snarled under his breath and shoved his chair back. If Aziraphale ever heard of this then there'd be no living with him, he'd be smug for _years_ , and Crowley scooped up his wine and glass, and went to drop into the seat at the man’s side. The human was drunk, but not quite enough to let this pass and Crowley watched him draw himself up, wrapping the last shreds of dignity around himself. 'Monsieur, I am sorry, but that seat is taken.'

'No it's not.' Crowley hadn't spoken French – really properly spoken it, rather than simply ordering a coffee or buying opera tickets – since before the Revolution, when he lived at the court of Louis XIII. But some things you never really forgot, and he opened his mouth and let the old syllables come to his tongue. 'I've been watching.'

The man deflated like a pricked balloon. 'And you have come to tell me I shouldn't be so drunk, at this hour in the morning.'

Crowley snorted, and tipped the rest of his bottle into the man's empty glass. 'Not me. The angel probably would, though.'

It was safe to mention Aziraphale: the human was drunk enough that if he remembered anything when he sobered up then it would be Crowley's peculiar accent and odd vocabulary – both five hundred years out of date. ‘I can feel you from the other side of the cafe. Stop being so bloody miserable.’

'I have cause to be.' He stared into his glass. 'I have lost a great love.'

'I know.'

This made his head turn sharply, and the man peered at him in confusion. 'I don't believe I know you?'

'You don't.' Crowley tapped their glasses together. 'Drink up.'

'You're really not here to tell me to stop.'

'Oh no.' Crowley raised his hand to catch the attention of a nearby waiter, and pointed at the empty bottle on their table.

'She was the great love of my life.'

Crowley said nothing. He couldn't pretend not to know what that was like.

'You're not going to tell me that there will be others?'

'No.'

'Then why _are_ you here?'

It was a good question. And Crowley had no real answer, save that the human reminded him uncomfortably of himself, when he had thought Aziraphale was dead and all he wanted was to get drunk out of his mind while he waited to die. With the angel gone there had been nothing left on Earth worth living for.

An echo of his feelings tickled his mind, and he looked again into the man's heart and saw something he had missed before. He hissed quietly. 'I'm here to stop you doing anything stupid. Stupid like falling into the river on your way home. Or taking one too many sleeping pills and not waking up again. Because you're drunk and not thinking clearly and it seems like a good idea.'

The man looked down into his wine but didn't deny it, and Crowley let him sit there as the waiter appeared with a new bottle. After he had gone, Crowley said, 'There _are_ others, though.' He waved a hand at the crowded café, a bit unsteadily. 'Whole damn planet's full of humans, there'll be another one you like.'

The man said nothing, only drained his glass.

'Best way to get over someone, really. Get under someone else. Even tried it myself, back in the day, s' a matter of fact.'

After that awful conversation over the flask of holy water, with yet another nervous refusal from Aziraphale echoing in his ears, Crowley had tried everything. None of it had worked particularly well, but the man didn't need to know that.

The human still didn't speak. The wine bottle rattled against the rim as he refilled both their glasses, and Crowley leaned back and let that sit with him.

After a while, the man took a gulp, planted his glass on the table, and drew himself up with the air of one who had come to a decision. He turned to Crowley, who watched him with detached curiosity, the pleasant buzz of the wine dulling his wariness. And also his senses, because he had almost no warning before the man leaned forward and kissed him full on the mouth.

It tasted overwhelmingly of wine. And, more importantly, he wasn't Aziraphale and it felt so utterly wrong to be kissing anyone other than the angel that Crowley tensed and very nearly shoved the man away.

But the human's heart was newly broken. And, for those few brief moments, Crowley held the entirety of the man's self-esteem cupped in his palms, and so he quashed his immediate instinct and instead let the human kiss him, not responding but not pushing him away. After a few moments Crowley eased back, softening the separation with a hand cupping the man's jaw.

'I'm... flattered,' he said, trying to find the right words and wishing, absurdly, that Aziraphale was here. He was much better at this sort of thing. 'But I can't. I'm...'

As Crowley struggled to form a sentence, something – a flicker in the air pressure, the slightest fizz along that part of his brain tuned to occult frequencies – made him look away from the human, straight into the shocked eyes of Aziraphale.

He stood just inside the door to the café, staring across the room at them and Crowley, realising how it must look, abruptly snatched his hand away from the human’s face and then wished he hadn’t. As though he had been doing something wrong.

Aziraphale looked stricken, almost as pale as his shirt, and Crowley half-rose from his seat. ‘Angel…’

The movement broke the spell holding Aziraphale, who sucked in a convulsive gasp, muttered something, and turned to push his way blindly past a pack of tourists who had just entered.

‘Ssshit,’ Crowley said, with feeling. He shoved his chair back, and turned to the human. ‘And you… the world’s full of humans. There’ll be another one you like. Don’t do anything stupid.’ He let his sunglasses slide down his nose a fraction before nudging them back up. A flash of yellow; not enough to send him mad with terror, but enough to ensure he remembered. ‘Believe me, I’ll know.’

The human blinked; Crowley watched his brain overrule the evidence of his own eyes, but there was still something there. And, even through his drunken stupor and his confusion, he rallied enough to say, ‘That’s your husband?’

The word punched Crowley in the chest, knocking the breath out of him. ‘He’s my…’ What word could possibly describe Aziraphale, and six thousand years of Crowley circling him first in derision, then in curiosity, and finally in adoration, won over despite himself.

‘We’re… complicated,’ Crowley said finally, and left.

The square outside the cathedral was crowded and Crowley scanned the groups for a blond head, a beige overcoat. Nothing, and he set off walking towards their hotel. It would be quicker to slip there directly, of course: to simply fold time and space around himself and step straight from one to the other. But bodily winking out of existence in front of all the humans – especially in front of a major religious monument – would attract exactly the sort of attention from both their sides that they’ve been lucky to escape so far.

Or at least…

Crowley almost stumbled under the thought. He assumed they had escaped attention, but what if they hadn’t? What if the moment Crowley had taken his attention off him, and Aziraphale had been upset and off-guard, they had snatched him up? Crowley quickened his pace.

He burst through the main doors to the hotel, almost running, and made for the lifts, but Aziraphale wasn’t in the room. And when Crowley ran back down to check, he wasn’t in the bar either, drowning his upset in the Ritz's best vintages.

Crowley stood in the doorway, panting for breath that he technically didn’t need but that suddenly felt essential while his heart pounded against his ribs.

Where else could Aziraphale go? He knew no-one in Paris, and he didn’t maintain any residence there, neither of them had since pre-Revolution. Crowley braced a hand on the door frame, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. He concentrated on his sense of Aziraphale but almost immediately he opened his eyes, shocked.

The fine chain that bound Aziraphale to him – brought into being the first time he had approached Aziraphale, all those millennia ago, with food in his hands and deceptively sweet words on his tongue – was hanging loose. Snapped.

Crowley reeled. It felt like Aziraphale had died all over again, the sensation just the same as when he ran into the burning bookshop already knowing he wouldn’t find Aziraphale there, and he clung to the door frame as his knees weakened.

‘Monsieur?’ A hand touched his elbow. ‘Monsieur, vous allez bien? Je peux vous aider?’

Crowley opened his eyes. A woman in the hotel’s uniform was at his elbow; Hell knew what his face looked like but it was enough to make her switch to English and try to steer him to a chair. ‘Please, sit, and perhaps a glass of water—’

'No.' Crowley waved her off, turned on his heel, and left the hotel.

He walked around Paris for hours, checking every cafe and bar within half a mile of the hotel. He walked back to Notre Dame and bribed a surprised young tourist to go inside and look for a blond Englishman in a pale beige coat. He slipped into the Louvre through a side door and checked every gallery and then, as night fell, he simply walked through Paris, every sense pricked for a whisper of Aziraphale. Finally, at dawn, he stood on the Pont Neuf staring numbly at the grey water. Wherever Aziraphale was, he was no longer in Paris.

Footsore, Crowley walked back to the hotel.

‘I need to check out,’ Crowley said, slapping his credit card down on the reception desk. ‘Now. At once.’

Thank Someone for the service at the Ritz, for the human wasted no time but just nodded. ‘Of course, sir. I will prepare your bill at once. I will send someone to fetch your bags, and—’

‘No.' The thought of strange hands touching Aziraphale’s things, his precious books, was intolerable. 'I’ll get them myself.’

Crowley climbed the stairs to their room. All of Aziraphale’s things were here, his clothes, even the volume he had been reading the night before. Surely he wouldn't just abandon them, and Crowley, without a second thought?

Crowley grimly packed Aziraphale’s belongings and dragged their cases down to the reception desk. The check-out was accomplished with a minimum of fuss, and Crowley tucked away his card and paused. ‘My… companion. The one I’m with.’

The human nodded. ‘The other gentlemen with the blond hair, and the…’ He sketched Aziraphale’s bowtie with a finger.

‘Yes. If you see him, will you tell him I’ve returned to London?’

Thank Someone all over again for the service here; the man didn’t betray so much as a flicker of an eyebrow to indicate that there was anything odd about the situation, merely nodded. ‘Of course, Monsieur.’

The tartan of Aziraphale’s suitcase seemed to stand in silent reproach to him all the way back to London: in the taxi to the Gare du Nord, and wedged over his seat on the Eurostar. And the thing weighed a ton, and seemed entirely resistant to any subtle demonic miracles to make it lighter, or less unwieldy.

At St Pancras he found the Bentley, snapped away the collection of parking tickets under the windscreen wiper, and took a moment to rest his forehead on the steering wheel and breathe her in. Adam had even managed to recreate the smell of her, the scent of leather seats lovingly kept in mint condition for ninety years.

And then he sat up and turned the key and the engine roared into life.

‘Right then,’ said Crowley.

The drive to Soho took five minutes rather than the more usual fifteen, and the first indication that Aziraphale was in the bookshop – and in a towering bad temper – came when the double yellow lines outside his shop failed to obligingly roll themselves out of the way at the Bentley’s approach. The second was the extremely localised rainstorm: Crowley left St Pancras under blue skies, but by the time he turned into Aziraphale’s road the windscreen was spotted with rain.

He stepped out of the car and bounded up the steps, snapping his fingers but unsurprised when the doors failed to spring open. Instead he balled up a fist and knocked sharply. ‘Angel!’

No answer. No so much as a breath of air stirred on the other side of the door. Crowley tried to peer through a window but the blinds were all down. It looked utterly abandoned.

Crowley knocked harder. ‘I know you’re in there, open the door.’

Further proof, if any were needed, of the rain’s celestial origins: where it landed on his skin it made Crowley itch. He huddled further under the meagre shelter of the guttering, on the top step, and knocked again. ‘Aziraphale. I’m not going away until I see you.’

All his thumping on the door had loosened something, or more likely it was angelic bastardry, for the guttering above his head creaked under the weight of the rain and shifted, and began to trickle directly onto Crowley’s head.

He hissed, his tongue flickering and forking and scales prickling to the surface across his shoulders, and muttered, ‘Bastard.’ And then, raising his voice: ‘I’ve got your bag here. Your books are getting wet.’

There was still no sign of life, no movement of the blinds, but a subtle change in the quality of the silence suggested that attention was now being paid. Crowley gritted his teeth.

‘Look, you don’t have to speak to me, if you don’t want to. But don’t you want to at least take your books indoors in the dry?’

No response but Crowley held his breath, crossing his fingers. And then at last the door clicked and opened a grudging inch, showing a sliver of Aziraphale.

‘Angel.’ Such a wave of relief hit him that Crowley nearly sat down flat on the doorstep. For all his suppositions, he hadn’t been certain that Aziraphale hadn’t been snatched until that moment. ‘Are you safe? Is there anyone in there with you?’

He couldn’t sense any other angelic presence – he still couldn't sense Aziraphale – but he wouldn’t put it past them to have Sandalphon standing behind Aziraphale’s shoulder, the point of a flaming sword pressed to the small of his back.

‘Where are my books,’ Aziraphale demanded. His face was pale. ‘You said you had them.’

Crowley put his palm to the door, testing gently, but it didn’t budge. ‘I need to speak to you. What you saw…’ He swallowed. ‘Look, it wasn’t what it looked like. He was only—’

‘I don’t want to discuss it.’ Aziraphale’s voice was quietly furious, but the dim light of the shop and the overcast day couldn't hide the pinkness of his eyes.

‘We really need to,’ Crowley said, his heart in his throat. ‘I know you’re upset, but you—’

‘You don’t have my books.’ Through the grudging one-inch gap, Aziraphale still managed to look Crowley up and down. ‘You lied.’

‘They’re in the car. I wouldn’t really have let them get wet, I know how much you love them.’ Crowley slid his fingers through the gap to brush Aziraphale’s forearm and the door twitched.

He jogged down the steps to retrieve Aziraphale’s case from the Bentley, hunching his shoulders against the rain. When he brought it up the steps the door widened and Aziraphale reached for it; Crowley held it out but hung onto the case when Aziraphale tried to take it, gripping hard against the twitch of an angelic miracle that tried to tug it away.

‘It wasn’t what it looked like,’ he said quickly, words tripping over each other in his desperation. ‘Honestly, if we could just talk for a moment, you don’t understand—’

‘I suppose I mustn’t,’ Aziraphale said coldly, ‘since I’m so stupid, for all that I’m so clever.’

Crowley was knocked breathless. He could only stare, mouth open. ‘What… who…’ He rallied. ‘Who said that to you? Tell me who it was and I’ll – oh.’ Realisation dawned as Aziraphale glared pointedly, and he faltered, ‘That wasn’t what I meant. And I wasn’t talking about this.’

Distraction loosened his grip, and when Aziraphale raised his hand a miracle stung Crowley's fingers as it tugged the case away and into the depths of the shop. Crowley flexed his hand with a hiss, and then grabbed the edge of the door when Aziraphale went to close it.

‘Look, I can see you’re upset so I’ll leave you alone. But perhaps I could come over tomorrow, yeah? And we can…’ Crowley waved an inarticulate hand between them. 'Talk.'

There was no answer from Aziraphale, and Crowley only just got his fingers out of the way before the bookshop door slammed.


	12. Now

‘Fuck!’

As Aziraphale winks out of existence in the garden Crowley shouts it towards the last traces of the sunset, screams it to the sky, clear in the west but with grey clouds boiling in the east. Fury churns his stomach and turns his blood to molten lava in his veins; fury at Aziraphale, for not listening to him, and utter blind rage at himself for letting it come to this. It seems such a short time ago that they had been drinking their victory champagne at the Ritz, with Aziraphale giggling over rubber ducks and Crowley looking at him with his heart in his eyes.

Crowley storms back into the cottage with hellfire crackling at his fingertips and venom dripping from his fangs. He strides all the way down the hall and across the living room to look out of the tall windows up to the hills.

They’re magnificent in the last of the sunset, but Crowley isn’t looking at that. He’s searching for the pale dot of Aziraphale’s coat moving among the shadows and when he doesn’t find it he turns away. He spits a glob of venom into the fire and then, before it can dissolve the burning wood and eat into the hearthstone, he flings a bolt of hellfire after it.

‘For _fuck’s_ sake, angel,’ and he rends claws through one of the fat cushions before clenching his fists and making himself stop.

He can't destroy the cottage, however much he might want to; it would require a series of very conspicuous miracles to restore it. Instead he sinks to sit on the edge of the sofa, braces his elbows on his knees, and buries his face in his hands.

‘Fuck. _Fuck_.’ He slides his hands up into his hair and clenches his fists, hard enough to pull his hair straight out at the roots. He swallows the curses in Enochian that sit burning on the back of his tongue, and forces himself to think.

Aziraphale can’t have gone far. Returning from Paris in one hop like that will have taken it out of him; such gadding about was easier when they and the world were young, but these days Aziraphale won’t be up to whisking himself to length of the country to flee to his bookshop. And besides, he promised Crowley a week and when Aziraphale promises something then he keeps to it, no matter the cost.

Crowley lifts his head to stare at the armchair by the fireplace, the empty space where Aziraphale should be, and hisses, his tongue forking. There are bottles of expensive Polish vodka in his freezer in London, and it would take barely anything at all to bring them here – a mere pleating to time and space so his freezer is at his right hand. But he wants to know the instant Aziraphale walks through the door, without having to sober up first, and he snarls and miracles himself a packet of cigarettes.

It’s the longest night of his life, longer even than the night after that argument at the bandstand. The sun sets and the sky grows dark and Aziraphale doesn’t return; around midnight the heavy clouds settle fully into the valley and the rain starts, and Crowley stares out into the night, past the raindrops pattering on the glass, and thinks of Aziraphale without a proper raincoat and in shoes more suited to strolling along to his favourite cafe.

It’s still raining when the first hint of light appears in the east; for a long time it looks like a trick of the imagination and Crowley has to stare hard to establish whether it’s real. But eventually it’s clear that it’s the dawn, the long night is over, and Crowley collapses back into the sofa with a sigh. His anger is long gone and he drifts, half-dozing, exhausted enough to sleep but strung out and twitchy from too much nicotine, and when the front door opens it takes a moment to register the noise. He leaps to his feet.

‘Aziraphale.’

A few long strides and Crowley meets him as Aziraphale closes the front door, dripping onto the doormat. He looks terrible: soaked through to the skin and white with cold, his hair plastered to head and rivulets of water running down his cheeks and dripping off his chin.

‘Where the Heaven have you been?’ Crowley demands, and then catches himself. It’s possible that that's exactly where he’s been.

‘Hello.’ Aziraphale won’t look at him. ‘I’m just… just going to fetch a towel—’

‘Look at me.’ Crowley grabs him by the shoulders, fights the urge to shake him. ‘What happened to you? Where have you been? Did they take you?’ Aziraphale is freezing; he doesn't have to feel cold unless he chooses to, or unless a more powerful being has forced it onto him, and Crowley tightens his grip. ‘What happened?’

Aziraphale still won’t look at him and this time Crowley does shake him. He tries to be gentle but he’s worried. ‘Focus, angel. And tell me: are they coming for you? Where’ve you been all night?’

‘Nature—’ Aziraphale’s voice is so low that Crowley shuts up and leans in to catch his words, ‘–whose rains fall on unjust and just alike, will have clefts in the rocks where I may hide, and secret valleys in whose silence I may weep undisturbed. She will hang the night with stars so that I may walk abroad in the darkness without stumbling, and send the wind over my footprints so none may track me.’

‘Fuck’s sake,’ spits Crowley. There’s really no other response.

But at least it doesn’t sound as though they need to prepare for a visit from vengeful angels, and Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s wrist and drags him along the hallway.

‘Oscar wrote that,’ Aziraphale says, bleakly, stumbling along after Crowley. His shoes squelch on the carpet.

‘I fucking _know_ who wrote it,’ Crowley snarls, because Aziraphale is freezing and dazed and quoting long passages from Wilde’s melodramatic break-up letter to his feckless young lover, and Crowley has had enough. He’s tried doing it Aziraphale’s way, tried respecting Aziraphale’s attempt to sweep it under the rug and look away and refuse to discuss it, and this is what it’s led to. Crowley shoves Aziraphale into the armchair nearest the fire, hurls a log onto the glowing embers, and snaps his fingers to send them blazing forth into fresh life.

He rounds on Aziraphale. ‘Now _look_ —’

‘Don’t.’ Aziraphale closes his eyes, presses the heels of his palms to his temples. ‘Please don’t. I’d much rather we didn’t—’

‘Tough,’ Crowley raises his voice, ‘because I have been trying to do it your way, and it’s led to... you're…’

For a moment he can only splutter, so worried and scared and angry that the words won’t come. The stupid angel hasn’t even thought to dry himself and Crowley snaps his fingers and removes the water from Aziraphale’s clothes. It’s a profligate use of casual miracles but right then Crowley doesn’t give a toss whose radar they show up on, he has anger enough to take on Below and Above together.

‘And your way is frankly _shit_ , so we are going to talk about this, for G– for Someone’s sake—’

‘Then don’t drag it out.’ Aziraphale lifts his head suddenly and pins Crowley with a look. ‘Just tell me and be done with it.’

Aziraphale sits straight-backed in his chair, his fingers twisted white-knuckled around each other, and Crowley sinks to his knees at Aziraphale’s feet, his anger fading as quickly as it had blazed up. His miracle removed the water from Aziraphale’s clothes but couldn't warm him and Crowley pulls Aziraphale’s hands between his own, trying to chafe that dreadful chill from them. He clings stubbornly when Aziraphale tries to pull back, and as he's thinking how best to begin Aziraphale speaks.

‘You’ve made it clear,’ Aziraphale says, low but determined, ‘that we want different things.’

‘We don’t.’ Crowley can’t help himself, but Aziraphale doesn't even look at him.

‘You’re ready to do with a complete stranger in a bar what you can’t bring yourself to do with me—’ Crowley is already shaking his head, but Aziraphale keeps speaking, ‘–and more than that, you can hardly bear to sleep next to me, or for me to touch you.’

‘You—’

‘So there’s no need to explain.’ Aziraphale finally pulls away from Crowley, pushing his hands aside as though Crowley’s strongest grip is no more than wet paper. ‘I understand perfectly. I only wish that… that you hadn’t humoured me, when I asked for it, if you didn’t really mean it. I do have my pride, after all.’

In the pale morning light Aziraphale looks dreadful. His hair is limp, his eyes sunken and exhausted, and his skin looks almost grey; he hasn't looked so wretched since that fight at the bandstand, since Crowley walked away from him rather than embarrass himself by begging Aziraphale to reconsider. It looks frighteningly like Crowley's dreams, with Aziraphale's colours fading as his Grace leaches from him, save that this time he's sinking rather than falling.

Crowley seizes Aziraphale's hands again, tries to rub some colours back into him. ‘Angel, that human in Paris… he was drunk, he’d just split up with his fiancée, I was only talking to him because I felt sorry for him, if I’d known he was going to _lunge_ at me like that…’

Aziraphale is already shaking his head.

‘I’m not just talking about Paris, and you know it. Even before we went you made it very clear that you didn’t care for my touch; I only suggested the trip because I thought… oh, I don’t know.’ Aziraphale looks away, but not quickly enough to hide the pinch of his eyebrows, the betraying wobble of his chin. ‘It’s suppose to be romantic, and I thought… You kissed me there once before, and I refused you. I wanted to tell you that I’d been wrong.’

‘No, angel,’ Crowley says, gently as he can. ‘You were right.’

Aziraphale looks stricken anew, and Crowley groans. He gathers Aziraphale’s hands up and holds them tightly, presses a kiss to his cold fingers. ‘I mean you were right to be worried. Above would – they _will_ – have your wings for this. For sex with the enemy.’

‘Don’t lie to me—’

‘I'm not lying,’ Crowley snarls, his control slipping. Far too harsh, but it shuts Aziraphale up. ‘You’re not listening to me. I’ve been trying to tell you for days now.’

Except that now Aziraphale is listening, looking at him with wide eyes, and all Crowley’s words have dried up.

‘When you… I mean, when I thought you were…’ He has to pause, to swallow moisture back into his throat. ‘Look, I’d do anything to keep you safe. You know that.’

Aziraphale nods.

‘And I started to think that maybe we shouldn’t be… you know.’ He gestures between them, feebly. Aziraphale still looks unconvinced, and Crowley changes tack.

‘When I went up there as you, they tried to murder you.’

Aziraphale frowns. ‘I know that. It was what we expected, that’s why we—’

‘No. Not execute.’ Crowley squeezes Aziraphale’s hands. He hadn’t told Aziraphale this bit at the time, trying not to lay too much on him after the week they’d both had. ‘There was no trial, angel. They were just going to kill you, without letting you speak a word in your own defence. Murder.’

Aziraphale swallows, and Crowley grits his teeth but presses on. ‘There’s no compassion left up there. No understanding, or love. And if they came and found us doing this—’ a quick press of Aziraphale’s hands between his, ‘–then they’d take your Grace and send you down to Hell.’

There’s no reply, and Crowley shakes their clasped hands a little. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’

‘I didn't realise you were so worried about it,’ Aziraphale says slowly.

Crowley suppresses an exasperated sigh. ‘Course I worry about it. If anything happened to you, angel, I’d… I… When the bookshop burned down, and I got there and you were gone, it felt…’

He can’t go on, and Aziraphale looks at him. His eyes are faintly pink, but there’s a trace of sharpness in them. ‘They’re not going to come for us, though.’

‘You don’t know—’

‘I do, actually, since I extracted a promise from them while I was down there. And from Michael, too.’

Crowley looks at him, and Aziraphale makes an impatient noise. ‘I did tell you. That first morning after the Ritz, and after we… well. You know.’ He gives a little cough. ‘Weren’t you listening?’

‘But you’re the nice one. You think they’d believe that you’d kill them if they turned up here?’

‘No.’ The corners of Aziraphale’s mouth turn up in the smallest of smiles. ‘But they’ll believe it of you.’

‘But—’

‘Secondly, you’re giving them too much credit. Only God can decide whether an angel Falls. She hasn’t condemned me for this and I don't believe she will. Not for love.’ Aziraphale gives him a tremulous smile. ‘Because I do love you, my darling. Desperately.’

Aziraphale brushes his fingertips along Crowley’s jaw, and for an aching moment Crowley allows himself to catch Aziraphale’s hand and press Aziraphale’s palm to his cheek, leaning into it as he so longs to do. But he forces himself to pull back and squeezes Aziraphale’s hand between his.

‘But—’

‘And even the… the sex.’ Aziraphale goes a bit pink. ‘How could it be wrong when it’s an act of love?’

‘Well,’ Crowley says, too exhausted for anything but the truth. ‘Never really seen much evidence of that over the centuries, to be honest.’

‘Oh.’ Aziraphale blinks, briefly surprised, and then looks at Crowley with fresh eyes. ‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t have.’ Gently, he touches Crowley’s face again. ‘But it’s not wrong, you know. What we did.’

Six thousand years is a long time to maintain a habit, whether of thought or deed, and Crowley opens his mouth but even for Aziraphale he can't make himself agree and have it be the truth.

After a long pause, Aziraphale sighs. ‘Well then.’

He stands and makes for the door and Crowley lurches to his feet. ‘What, no, wait—’ Aziraphale is walking down the hall and Crowley stumbles after him. ‘Don’t go, I’m sorry, alright? If you say it’s an act of love then fine, let’s call it that.’

‘I’m not leaving.’ Aziraphale pauses in front of one of the doors, stopping so abruptly that Crowley trips over his own feet and has to catch himself on the wall.

‘Then what…?’

‘Have you looked in a mirror recently?’

Crowley draws back, caught on the raw. ‘I’ve had other things on my mind.’

Aziraphale grips his arm and steers him gently to the hallway mirror.

They’re immortal entities, the passage of time is meaningless to them, but Crowley looks as though he’s aged a century: the lines in his face seem to be carved into his flesh, and his eyes have gone full yellow.

‘Ssshit.’ He rubs a hand over his face, hiding his eyes, trying to pull them back into something like their usual.

‘Oh my dear, no.’ Aziraphale takes his wrist and pulls his hand away. ‘I only meant that you look so tired.’

It’s only a small endearment, but Crowley clings to it gratefully. Proof that this new thing between them hasn’t been broken beyond mending.

‘I think you ought to rest,’ Aziraphale says, opening the door to reveal the double bed, the pile of fluffy pillows and thick duvet. ‘Just for a bit.’

The bed looks soft, and warm, and Crowley can’t even mind the tartan throw folded neatly across the foot of it. But he blinks and resists the siren song for a moment longer. ‘Where will you be?’

‘I thought I might read.’

Crowley snaps his fingers to change his clothes for his favourite set of pyjamas. And then, without looking at Aziraphale, he says, ‘You could read in bed. If you like. Make sure I don’t sleep too long.’

‘Oh. If you’re sure…’

Aziraphale sounds uncertain, and Crowley finds Aziraphale’s wrist and fastens his own long bony fingers around it.

‘Please, angel,’ he says quietly. ‘Stay.’

Sleep comes quickly and for a while Crowley drifts in a doze, sleeping just deeply enough to enjoy it but awake enough to be aware of Aziraphale steady and – finally – warm next to him. But then he turns over and sinks deeper into sleep and tumbles head-first into his old nightmare.

_The crowd is thick around him, pushing him this way and that, the air rank with fear – the first taste of it in a world that’s only ever known peace and harmony – and Crowley stumbles under the press of the crowd but manages to keep his feet. The distant part of him that’s observing urges him to leave, aware on some level that this isn’t real, but he meets Aziraphale’s gaze through the crowd and that settles it, he can’t turn away from Aziraphale in trouble._

_‘Crowley,’ Aziraphale says, as Crowley weaves through the crowd to approach him where he stands with the group of rebels. ‘I’m not… I only ever asked questions.’_

_‘I know.’ Crowley reaches for Aziraphale’s hand and clasps it tightly. And then, even though it never works, he pulls at it. ‘Come here, come away from there.’_

_‘I can’t.’_

_Aziraphale looks miserable and Crowley folds his fingers tighter around Aziraphale’s. ‘Try. Please. You don’t deserve this.’_

_'I do.' Aziraphale turns his face away. 'I've been a bad angel.'_

_'It's my fault. You wouldn't have done it if I hadn't tempted you into it.' Crowley tugs at his hand. 'Come here, let me take your place.'_

_He’s so absorbed in Aziraphale’s impending doom that when a hand grips his arm he nearly jumps out of his skin._

_‘You’re dreaming,’ says a familiar, beloved voice._

_Crowley turns._

_Aziraphale stands next to him. Aziraphale as he is now, not as he was in the beginning; now he has knowledge in the tiny lines around his eyes, and the weight of experience on his shoulders._

_Aziraphale looks about himself. ‘Is this where you’ve been coming? When you sleep?’_

_‘Yeah.’ The pressure of Aziraphale’s – the _other_ Aziraphale’s – hand in his tightens abruptly and Crowley turns back to him. And he knows it’s futile, but he can’t help but draw near at the sight of him, the look on his face, until from behind him Aziraphale says, ‘And is this really what you think of me? So weak and… helpless?’_

_Crowley makes no reply, too busy trying to pull Aziraphale from the circle, knowing how little time remains._

_‘This isn’t real,’ Aziraphale says behind him, quiet but insistent. ‘Crowley, you have to stop. This is just a dream.’_

_‘I know that,’ Crowley says, between gritted teeth._

_He can’t look away from the Aziraphale of his dream, who has fallen silent as though he knows pleading won’t do any good even as the ground fractures beneath his feet, and Crowley clings to him. Behind him Aziraphale exhales sharply through his nose, and then firms his hold on Crowley’s arm._

_‘I can’t leave him,’ Crowley says desperately, staring into Aziraphale’s eyes as they begin to darken. A clot of black appears at the inner corners and then bleeds rapidly across the sclera, drowning the blue of the pupils. ‘He’s you, angel.’_

_‘No, he’s not.’_

_Somehow, above the rumbling ground, the shouting, the weeping and the cries of the falling angels, the sound of Aziraphale’s voice rises above it all. ‘Enough.’_

_Between one blink and the next it’s gone, all of it: the angels, the chasm, the mingled smell of ozone and sulphur and burnt hair and wings. And the Aziraphale who clung so pitifully to Crowley’s arm, and the sudden release of weight makes Crowley stagger backwards, almost falling. Aziraphale catches his elbow, steadying him, and then turns Crowley to face him._

_‘He… you just **left** him—’_

_‘No, I didn’t. We can’t leave him, because he’s not real.’ Aziraphale looks at him searchingly. ‘None of that was real. And even if it were, my darling, you can’t protect me from it. Because this is my choice.’_

_Crowley shuts his eyes. ‘You can’t choose **this**.’_

_‘But I can.’ Aziraphale sounds firm, and when Crowley ventures to look, he’s watching Crowley with infinite tenderness. ‘And I do.’_

_The words catch Crowley between his ribs and he can’t quite breathe; he doesn’t know what his face is doing but it all feels too raw and exposed, and when Aziraphale takes his elbows to draw him close then Crowley goes, grateful for the opportunity to hide against Aziraphale’s shoulder while he pulls himself together._

_‘Now wake up,’ Aziraphale whispers in his ear, and settles a hand at Crowley's nape to stroke the hair that feathers to a V, and the bare vulnerable skin beneath it. ‘We have the rest of the world in front of us and I want you to spend it with me, not tormenting yourself in dreams.’_

Crowley tightens his arms around Aziraphale as he rises out of sleep, the dream world fading and blurring like a watercolour in the rain. Aziraphale’s shoulder remains curiously solid against his forehead, and Crowley blinks his eyes open to find Aziraphale has wriggled down to share Crowley's pillow, his head tilted forward to rest his forehead against Crowley's. One of Crowley's hands is clasped firmly between both of Aziraphale’s, and even as Crowley blinks groggily Aziraphale’s eyes flutter and open.

‘There you are,’ Aziraphale says quietly, bringing a hand up to brush his thumb gently beneath Crowley’s eyes, one after the other, as Crowley realises in mortification that his eyelashes are damp. His pyjama top is wet with sweat, but Aziraphale strokes a hand down his back and he's clean and dry.

Crowley can’t find words, he only makes an incoherent noise and squeezes the hand pressed palm to palm with his, and Aziraphale nearly kisses him.

Nearly.

Even addled with sleep, Crowley sees the impulse cross his mind, sees him lean forward fractionally, lips parting, and then the recollection of all that’s happened, the uncertainty, the slight withdrawal, the minute shuttering of the love spilling out of his face. Aziraphale looks down at their clasped hands.

‘Forgive me. That was rather intrusive.’ Aziraphale strokes his thumb over Crowley’s knuckles. ‘Only you looked in such distress I couldn’t bear it, I wanted to see if I could—’

Crowley closes the distance between their faces and kisses him.

Aziraphale’s mouth is warm and soft beneath his and Crowley nearly dissolves at how good it feels, at how much he’s wanted this and denied himself. Aziraphale gives a small surprised noise, his hand cupping Crowley’s jaw for a second and holding him close before gently easing him away.

‘Darling, no. We don’t have to do that. Not if you don’t want to.’ He strokes Crowley’s cheek tenderly, and Crowley wants to burrow against him and never come out. ‘Not if it’s going to make you so anxious.’

‘No.’ Crowley catches Aziraphale’s hand, kisses the inside of his wrist. ‘This is what we fought for, isn’t it? Freedom to do what we wanted. Our side.’

He kisses Aziraphale again and Aziraphale wraps his arms around him and pulls him close, and this time the frantic thumping of Crowley's heart is entirely due to arousal. Aziraphale is warm and lovely against him, and for the first time Crowley is aware of the solidity underlying his soft, fluffy exterior. It’s comforting to feel it and know that Aziraphale is strong enough to defend himself, if he had to.

Possibly Aziraphale senses this, for he manifests a large white wing and curls it around Crowley, protectively. ‘What do you want, darling.’

His hand is already creeping up under Crowley’s pyjama top, and Crowley flicks his pyjamas away with a wave of his hand and starts working at the buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt. ‘Just this. You.’

His fingers trip and stumble over the small buttons; it would be easier just to banish the lot into the firmament but Aziraphale is particular about his clothes and Crowley gives in with relief when Aziraphale takes over. In a very short time he’s deliciously, warmly naked against Crowley and Crowley presses close. Stomach to stomach, chests brushing, legs tangling together; he fills his hands with Aziraphale’s waist, hips, thighs, pushing his face into the curve of neck and shoulder and inhaling deeply, scenting him.

‘Oh.’ Aziraphale’s breathy noise makes him growl, low in his throat, and Aziraphale’s hands grip his hips where Crowley is already starting to squirm and find a rhythm.

‘Tell me what you’re thinking of,’ Crowley begs, desperate to please him, to give him whatever fantasy has been playing out in his head all those times Crowley turned away from him, but Aziraphale reaches down and gathers Crowley’s cock into his fist and Crowley bites his lip.

‘Just you,’ Aziraphale breathes. ‘Like this. That’s all I’ve wanted for, oh, such a long time now.’

He starts to move down, his lips parting, but Crowley grabs his shoulder reflexively and mutters, ‘No, not… just… here.’

He can't be any more explicit than that, not even for Aziraphale, but Aziraphale seems to understand. He slides his free arm beneath Crowley’s neck to gather him in close and curls his wing tighter around him. Crowley squirms as close as he can get, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale and a leg over Aziraphale’s thighs, even as Aziraphale draws slick fingertips down the length of him and makes him shiver.

It feels more intimate than anything they’ve done so far, now that Aziraphale has been inside his mind and witnessed his worst fears, and Crowley arches his spine and curls his toes as Aziraphale touches him. Not quite how Crowley usually does it for himself – a little too firm, and too slow – but even that difference is exciting, particularly when Aziraphale pauses in the middle to touch his balls and stroke his inner thighs. A moan tears itself out of Crowley's throat and his thighs part wider, on instinct; Aziraphale looks briefly surprised and then pleased.

‘Oh, you really do want this.’

‘What do you… of course I want this.’ Crowley blinks and tries to focus, to find something reassuring to say, but it’s difficult when Aziraphale takes his cock back into his fist and everything is warm and tight and slick. His back arches and his hips push forwards without conscious thought. ‘Angel… I…’

‘I know.’ Aziraphale smiles, kisses Crowley’s bitten-red lips. ‘Shush, yes, I know. It was just an idle comment.’

‘But—’

But then Aziraphale squirms down the bed to lick across his nipples and Crowley fists his hands in the pillow; it’s that or grab at Aziraphale’s hair. Or his feathers: his wing is still corporeal and curled around Crowley, warm feathers tickling his spine every time he moves and Crowley shuts his eyes and gives himself over to it. He lets himself writhe and squirm like the snake he is and at the end, when everything coalesces into something bright and hot and immediate, he gasps Aziraphale’s name.

His whole body is thrumming, and he bites his lip but can’t entirely smother his noises, the nonsense falling out of his mouth, ‘–oh shit, I’m… fuck, I’m almost... you're going to make me come– ’ until Aziraphale takes pity on him and leans up to kiss him, hard, not pausing even when Crowley sobs and shakes and comes all over Aziraphale’s hand and thighs.

When he finally opens his eyes, still breathless, Aziraphale is beaming. Almost literally; his smile is so unguardedly happy that he almost glows with it, and Crowley wraps both arms around him to hold him – tight as he can, unable to speak – before rolling him onto his back, careful not to crush his wing.

‘That. Oh darling, that was what I wanted, you’re so lovely,’ Aziraphale is murmuring in his ear and stroking his back and Crowley bites little kisses along his neck and onto his bare shoulder.

Aziraphale is still hard against Crowley’s hip, hot and wanting, and Crowley moves his thigh gently against it. ‘Not all you wanted, surely.’

‘Well…’

But Crowley is already moving while Aziraphale hesitates, sliding down the bed and between his warm thighs to press his face to Aziraphale’s hip and flicker his tongue out to taste.

‘Oh.’ Aziraphale’s voice goes a little higher, and breathless. ‘Mmm, oh, yes please.’

His cock is warm against Crowley’s jaw, and Crowley turns his head to guide it into his mouth as Aziraphale moans, thighs twitching wider, and presses his fingers to his mouth.

Crowley tries to go slow, to draw it out and let Aziraphale savour the sensation, but Aziraphale can’t seem to help himself. He's far too wound up; clearly he’s been thinking about this for a long time and, recalling the week they’ve just had and how uncertain Aziraphale has been of Crowley’s intentions, Crowley abandons his plan of restraint.

Instead he curls his arms around Aziraphale’s thighs to hold him steady and sucks at him greedily, desperate. He concentrates on how much he loves Aziraphale and blindly pushes it at him, and Aziraphale moans under him, thighs squeezing Crowley's shoulders, and grabs a handful of sheets. He’s delicious like this, and Crowley releases his grip on Aziraphale’s thighs to reach for his fist, coaxing his fingers to uncurl so Crowley can replace the folds of sheet with his own fingers. His other hand he slides beneath Aziraphale to rub a firm thumb just behind his balls and then down, fingers miraculously wet, and Aziraphale gives a gorgeously surprised gasp just before he comes.

Crowley gentles him through it, and when Aziraphale is sated he crawls partway up the bed to settle his head on Aziraphale’s heaving chest and press his nose to Aziraphale’s sternum. He wriggles his arms beneath Aziraphale’s back; uncomfortable, sandwiched between Aziraphale and the bed, but it satisfies his snaky desire to wrap himself around Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s arms settle around him, his hands find their way into Crowley’s hair, and Crowley all but melts against him. Aziraphale strokes his hair in meditative silence for a time, and finally moves. He half-sits up, as though Crowley's weight on him is nothing, but before Crowley can protest Aziraphale only pulls up the duvet and lies back down, tucking it solicitously around Crowley’s shoulders.

‘What’s all this?’ Crowley murmurs, as the duvet is shaped warmly around him, and Aziraphale gently adjusts his head to a position that won’t strain his neck.

‘You’ve been taking care of me for this past week,’ Aziraphale says, ‘and—’

‘Not very well. I’ve made you miserable.’

‘Well…’ Aziraphale hesitates but doesn’t deny it, and Crowley curls in on himself with shame. From now on he will love Aziraphale so well, so thoroughly, that he forgets all about this less than perfect start and never again has cause for doubt.

‘Say rather you’ve been worrying about me, then. And, fool that I am, it never occurred to me that perhaps I should be worrying about you. So here.’ Aziraphale strokes his hair back off his forehead with gentle fingers. ‘Sleep now. You must need it. Let me keep watch for a bit.’

So Crowley does. And, for the first time since the world was saved, there are no dreams.

\----------

He sleeps through most of the day, and wakes in the late afternoon still in Aziraphale’s arms to find that Aziraphale is somehow contriving to read a book over the top of Crowley’s rumpled hair. When Crowley stirs and opens his eyes Aziraphale smiles gently at him, but it’s not until Crowley rolls him onto his back for a thorough kiss good morning that Aziraphale laughs up at him in joy.

‘Did you sleep well?’ His eyes sparkle, and he lifts his chin for Crowley to nose into Aziraphale’s neck, breathe him in, and then begin to kiss him again. ‘You clearly needed it; you haven't moved all day.’

In answer Crowley kisses his smiling mouth, and there’s no more talking for a good long while as Crowley sets about making Aziraphale forget he ever doubted Crowley's desire for him.

Afterwards Aziraphale, deliciously flushed and glowing with contentment, lets Crowley cuddle him close, snakeishly possessive, before insisting on getting up for tea. Crowley lets him go reluctantly; it’s been hours since Aziraphale’s last cup, it’s almost surprising he lasted the whole day.

But at the quiet chink of glass from the kitchen Crowley remember the contents of the food hamper and gets up in a hurry. He doesn't want to miss Aziraphale’s face as he discovers all its treasures, and he pulls on his trousers and goes to drape himself over Aziraphale's back, sliding his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and resting his chin on his shoulder.

‘Ooo, look.’ Aziraphale pulls out a packet of gravlax, and another packet of cheese studded with truffle. ‘Oh, how lovely.’ Aziraphale twists open a jar of mushroom pate, smears a bit on an oatcake, and nibbles. ‘That’s delicious.’

He holds it up to Crowley, who takes a bite more to please Aziraphale than from any real hunger, and Aziraphale finishes the oatcake and licks his fingertips before proceeding.

It reminds Crowley of their victory lunch at the Ritz, where Aziraphale had been newly appreciative of all the creative ways humans had found, over the centuries, to prepare their food. And further back, to the first time Crowley had fed Aziraphale meat and bread in the marketplace all those thousands of years ago, and he feels suddenly dizzy. Who would have thought he would end up here.

Aziraphale feels him falter, and quickly turns to put his arms around Crowley. 'Are you alright?'

'Fine,' Crowley mumbles, unsteady on his feet. ' 'm fine, it's just...a lot...'

Aziraphale doesn't push him away, or ask for an explanation, or try to guide him to a chair, instead he only pulls Crowley closer, tighter. 'Then hold onto me, darling. I've got you.'

And Crowley presses his face to Aziraphale's strong shoulder and sags into him, trusting to the angel to bear their combined weight for a while.


	13. Now

When booking the cottage Crowley had hesitated over the length of their stay. He had settled on a week, hoping they would last that long and that Aziraphale wouldn’t want to go home after a night.

Now he curses himself. A week is a mere blink in the life span of two beings who’ve lived six thousand years; now that his fears have been brought out into the daylight and banished, and now that he has Aziraphale – happy, and in love, and without looking over his shoulder for damnation – Crowley wishes he’d booked it for ten times as long.

The following morning finds them on the sofa, curled together beneath one of the ubiquitous tartan throws and with a fire crackling in the hearth.

Over breakfast – with Crowley slowly waking up over coffee, and Aziraphale in raptures over toasted crumpets with some sort of fancy Himalayan salted butter – fat raindrops had begun to pat gently on the kitchen window. Crowley had raised a hand, ready to send the rainclouds on their way, but Aziraphale had caught his wrist.

'What do you think of a morning indoors?' Aziraphale's thumb stroked gently over the point of Crowley's wrist. 'Might be rather nice. We could light the fire. And I'd like a look at some of those books in the living room.'

He smiled tentatively, and Crowley subsided. 'Course. Whatever you like.'

And now he's half-lying on Aziraphale's chest, with Aziraphale's fingers playing gently in his hair and Aziraphale using the top of his head as a book rest, and Crowley is so in love he can't even grumble as he ought.

The patter of the rain is soothing, and the occasional rustle of a page turning; he has his phone out to spread mischief and rage on Twitter but he's so mellow that he can't manage it, all he wants is to lie there and be petted.

Until out of nowhere, Aziraphale speaks. 'Darling, do you remember the Renaissance?'

'Umf.' Crowley stirs. 'Yeah, I do.' It had been a marvellous time: the whole of Europe ablaze with innovation and curiosity and unquenchable thirst for knowledge, and Crowley had thrummed to it all like a tuning fork. 'Although Leo was the only one of them worth knowing from that era. What made you think of that?'

'Oh, just this book. It's set in the sixteenth century, and it brought it all back. it was such a wonderful time.'

'Yeah. Actually...um... since you mention it...' Crowley swallows, tongue-tied. Aziraphale loves receiving gifts and Crowley adores giving them, but every time he's blessed if he knows what to say as he hands them over so he just reaches down the back of the sofa.

It takes a bit of concentration to bring it all the way from London, but eventually his fingertips brush the book spine and he pulls it out and hands it to Aziraphale.

'Here y'go. You may as well have it, I've no use for it.'

' _The Art of Shakespeare_ ,' Aziraphale reads. He's not fooled for an instant by the idea that Crowley would really have bought it for himself, and he kisses the top of Crowley's head. 'Darling, how lovely, thank you.'

'You don't have to keep it if you don't like it.'

'It's a present from you,' Aziraphale says, as though the idea is nonsense, and nudges Crowley's head up so he can kiss his mouth. 'Of course I'll like it.'

A sizzle of arousal licks up his spine, but Aziraphale is already opening the cover and Crowley lies back down. And his brain must have been half-asleep until now, lulled by Aziraphale's fingers in his hair and the delicious warmth of him, because it's only now that Crowley remembers that bloody painting he was going to tear out before giving the book.

He tenses and Aziraphale, beneath him, can hardly miss it.

'Crowley?'

Crowley's hand clamps onto the edge, preventing Aziraphale from turning any more pages.

'Darling?'

Aziraphale is curious, uncertain, and Crowley swallows. How can he get the book away from Aziraphale and alter it without him suspecting?

'It's not stolen, is it?'

'No, nothing like that.' Crowley has been subjected to several lectures about making someone an unwitting party to receiving stolen goods. 'It's... I was going to... um...'

There's no way to manage it. And, looking at Aziraphale's uncertain face, Crowley sags: not talking to Aziraphale was precisely what got him into such a mess in the first place, and he removes his hand.

'What is it?'

'Just go ahead,' Crowley says, resting his cheek on the velvet of Aziraphale's waistcoat lapel.

Aziraphale turns the pages, murmuring his appreciation of this or that painting – or how he knew the artist – and it's immediately apparent when he reaches the one Crowley has been dreading: he stills and, very quietly, says, 'Ah.'

'Don't look.' Crowley breaks, wretched, and tries to turn past it. 'Don't look at it, that's not for you.'

'It's fine.' Aziraphale gently pushes his hand away. And then, quite unexpectedly, he smiles.

'What?' Crowley demands. Of all the reactions he expected, this one didn't feature.

‘I know this painting,’ Aziraphale says quietly.

Crowley shuts his eyes as his stomach clenches. ‘Well then.’

‘There’s a rather interesting story behind it, actually. Painted by Signora Giordano, which was rather unusual at the time, and—’

‘Please, angel,’ Crowley groans, ‘not an art history lecture now.’

If he doesn't head him off at the pass, Aziraphale will spend the rest of the morning recounting all the gossip from sixteenth-century Florence.

‘Hush.’ The gentlest squeeze to his arm; affection masquerading as reproof. ‘You’ll like this one. She was quite a character; she managed to make her own way in a world that wasn't built to accept her. She never married, you know. She did well enough from her paintings that she didn’t need to, but there were rumours about her and her great rival, Signora Lombardi, who was also a notable painter. Despite living in different cities they somehow spent rather a lot of time in each other’s company for two people who were supposed to be rivals, and there were those who said that they were… well, not quite rivals. In fact quite the opposite, if you see what I mean.’

‘Oh yes?’ This is racier than Aziraphale’s usual rhapsodising on art.

‘Mmm. And this painting is particularly interesting because of its subject matter, and its ambiguity. There’s a theory about it, you see, that it can be read two ways. Because on the surface it’s a fallen angel, cast out from Heaven, irredeemable—’

‘I know what it is,’ Crowley snaps.

‘Yes.’ A penitent kiss to his hair. ‘Yes, er, quite. But look closer.’ Aziraphale’s arm settles around his shoulders and squeezes and Crowley, despite himself, relaxes even as he lifts his head to look again at the painting.

‘Do you see the shadow here?’ Aziraphale somehow contrives to point without letting go of Crowley. ‘And this shape here… the way the light falls… there’s another figure standing off to one side. Just out of sight of the viewer.’

Crowley tilts his head. Perhaps it does look a bit as though someone is there, with their shadow falling just to the side of the angel. Or it could be a trick of the light, the scatter of darker rocks among the light.

‘And the title… well. Do you know the full poem?’

Crowley twitches irritably. ‘Of course not. I don’t read books, you know that.’

‘No, of course.’ Aziraphale kisses his mouth again and Crowley leans further into him. ‘“When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, and trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, and look upon myself and curse my fate…”’

Of course Aziraphale has the thing word-perfect. He was probably there when Shakespeare wrote it, whispering in his ear and providing divine inspiration.

‘Is that it?’ Crowley asks, when Aziraphale is finished.

‘Yes.’

‘Right.’

‘You’re not listening. The final couplet: “Thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings, that then I scorn to change my state with kings.”’

Crowley makes no reply and Aziraphale continues, ‘I’m saying – the artist is saying – that they’re not alone. That they may have fallen but that they’re not alone, that someone is there to catch them. And that—’ Aziraphale swallows, and continues more hesitantly, ‘–they may, all things considered, think it was worth it. They would prefer to live as an outcast with their love, than live in a palace in solitude.’

Crowley can't answer, his heart swelling and choking him. What he did to deserve this he doesn't know, but he'll spend the rest of his immortal life ensuring Aziraphale doesn't regret it and he squeezes Aziraphale as tightly as he can. Aziraphale sets the book aside, clinging to him in return, and they stay there for a long time.

\----------

Crowley’s sunglasses gather dust on the mantelpiece while they spend an extravagant amount of time in bed, learning each other’s bodies, and in Aziraphale’s case, also learning his own. Crowley makes love to him every single way he can think of which, given his imagination and the length of time he’s wanted Aziraphale, is quite a lot. And has hopefully forever banished from Aziraphale’s mind any nonsense about Crowley not finding his body desirable.

They emerge at intervals, to raid the hamper Crowley brought and prepare lavish meals; meals that are mostly consumed by Aziraphale, but Crowley sits at the table with him and lets Aziraphale feed him bites from his fork, or from his fingers. They twine around each other on the sofa and drink until they’re both thoroughly pissed, and then Crowley has a brilliant idea and sobers up a little, just enough to wrap a blanket around them both and drag Aziraphale out into the garden to look at the stars.

The grass tickles their bare feet, and Crowley stands behind Aziraphale, his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and his wings curled tightly around Aziraphale against the cold, and murmurs in his ear. He touches Aziraphale’s chin, guiding Aziraphale’s gaze to look at this one. And this one, angel. And that one over there, I was proud of that one. He whispers their names to him – their true names, not the ones the humans have given them – and Aziraphale strokes the black wings curled tight around him and murmurs, ‘Yes, darling. Yes, I see.’

When Crowley can no longer feel his toes, and even Aziraphale is beginning to shiver, they stumble back into the cottage on numb feet, but Crowley is barely through the door when Aziraphale gasps, sounding utterly shocked, ‘ _Crowley._ ’

‘What?’ Crowley turns swiftly, his hand clamping onto Aziraphale’s forearm, and scans the garden for threats. He snaps his fingers, sobering up in a hurry. ‘What is it, where did you see it—’

‘No, no, it’s not that, it’s _you_.’ Aziraphale is trying to push him into the cottage and Crowley is trying to get back out into the garden to face down this intruder and they sway on the threshold, Aziraphale clumsy from too much wine and Crowley reeling from his swift return to sobriety, until Aziraphale rights himself and shoves Crowley into the living room.

‘Come here,’ Aziraphale says, pulling his arm free and grabbing Crowley’s shoulders to walk him across the room towards the fire. ‘Turn around, let me see.’

Crowley has no say in the matter, Aziraphale has him in a vice-grip, and Crowley lets Aziraphale turn him to put his back to the firelight. He can hardly do otherwise; it’s rare that Aziraphale chooses to exert his full strength, but when he does then he can overpower Crowley easily, he’s steel wrapped in velvet softness.

‘Your wings…’ Aziraphale sounds choked. ‘Crowley, one of your feathers, it’s… it’s…’

‘It’s what?’ Crowley demands irritably. He twitches a wing forwards over his shoulder, trying to see. ‘Moulting? Mange? What?’

‘It’s _white_.’

Crowley snorts. ‘You’re pissed, angel. Too much Mouton Rothschild.’

‘I certainly am not,’ Aziraphale says. ‘It’s right here.’

He presses a thumb to the base of Crowley’s wing, where it joins his back, and Crowley flexes his shoulders. He doesn’t feel any different. More than likely Aziraphale is tipsy and the firelight is catching his wings at an odd angle. But just in case…

‘Well, rip it out, then.’ Crowley reaches blindly up behind his own back, raking his fingers through his feathers, groping clumsily.

Aziraphale smacks his hand away gently. ‘I’ll do no such thing!’ He strokes the spot on Crowley’s wing. ‘I think it’s darling.’

And just as Crowley is about to protest, Aziraphale leans in and kisses where his fingers are stroking, rubbing his feathers gently against the grain, and Crowley half-melts under the surge of pleasure in his chest. Perhaps this freakish, bleached little thing can stay after all.

‘Oh _Crowley_ …’

Aziraphale sounds odd and, when Crowley turns, his eyes are wet.

‘Angel…’ Crowley says helplessly. ‘Don’t. I’m going to run out of handkerchiefs.’

‘I’m not crying, I’m fine.’ Aziraphale brushes his thumb to the corner of his eye, but when Crowley miracles a handkerchief he takes it. ‘Well, I am, but it’s not what you think. I’m happy, I really am.’

Despite his watery eyes, he looks it: smiling at Crowley so brightly, his joy shining out of his face. And Crowley hates to crush it, but nor can he let Aziraphale labour under a delusion.

‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ Crowley says. He folds his wings away firmly. ‘You know that, don’t you.’

‘But—’

‘No buts.’ Crowley stalks over to sit on the sofa and pour himself more wine, but when Aziraphale comes to sit close Crowley passes it to him and pours another for himself.

‘I can’t be redeemed,’ Crowley says, staring down into the red wine gleaming in the firelight. ‘Don’t pretend I can.’

‘You don't need to be.’ Aziraphale leans into him, tentative at first and then with greater assurance when Crowley settles an arm around his shoulders. ‘You're perfect just as you are, and I wouldn't change a thing about you. But as I told you: you don’t belong to them. Not any more.’

Such talk makes Crowley uncomfortable, and he takes a large gulp of wine before setting it aside. ‘I thought I belonged to you, angel.’

Usually this would win him a kiss, but instead Aziraphale looks into the fire and says, quietly, 'And I don't think I really belong to Heaven. Not any more.'

'Don't,' Crowley says quickly, his heart in his throat. 'Be careful—'

Aziraphale spreads his wings impatiently, almost knocking Crowley off the sofa. 'I'm fine, Crowley, look. If I were going to Fall then I would have done it by now. I just meant that... oh, come here. Make a fire.'

Puzzled, Crowley looks between him and the fire in the hearth.

Aziraphale tuts, shaking his head. 'No, I mean a proper one. Hellfire. Can you... I don't know... summon it, or what have you?'

Mutely, Crowley extends his arm a safe distance from Aziraphale and clenches his fist. When he opens his fingers, a flame dances in his palm.

'Good. Now watch.' Aziraphale concentrates, and then flicks his fingers.

The flame visibly wavers, and Crowley startles so hard he almost falls off the sofa. 'What the _fuck_.'

'Gosh,' says Aziraphale, his voice shaking only a little. 'I wasn't actually sure that would work.'

'No,' Crowley sputters, clenching his fist and extinguishing the flame, 'no, really, that shouldn't be possible, how are you able to do that.'

Aziraphale gathers Crowley's free hand to him and looks down at their fingers.

'Because I'm no longer completely of Heaven,' he says and still, even after all that Heaven have done, there's the faintest thread of sadness in his voice. But the next instant he looks at Crowley and smiles. 'And you're no longer completely of Hell. I think that instead, after all we've been through together, we've become... something else.'

'Like what?'

'I don't know.' And only now does Aziraphale sound unsure. 'I shouldn't think there's ever been an angel or a demon quite like us before.'

'What does that mean?'

Crowley is already starting to worry, to come up with contingency plans, but his train of thought is utterly derailed when Aziraphale leans in to kiss him and then looks at him with such love.

'Just as you told me, darling. It means we're on our own side.'

And this time, when Aziraphale smiles, Crowley tentatively returns it.

\----------

Aziraphale sits in bed with Crowley while he sleeps, sometimes with a wing curled around him, sometimes with Crowley’s head in Aziraphale’s warm lap and the blankets pulled high around his shoulders. Only once does Crowley wake up cold, and it’s because Aziraphale has furtively pulled the blankets off him while he sleeps.

‘Angel,’ Crowley complains blurrily, as Aziraphale quickly covers him up again. He turns over, pressing his cold hands and icy nose to Aziraphale’s warm, bare thighs. ‘What in hell?’

‘Sorry, I’m so sorry, my darling.’ Aziraphale radiates guilt as he strokes Crowley’s hair. ‘Go back to sleep. I didn’t mean to wake you.’

‘I will as soon as you tell me what you’re doing.’ Crowley looks up, and has a perfect view of the blush staining Aziraphale’s cheeks, and the triangle of bare chest exposed by his dressing gown.

‘I only wanted to look at you for a moment,’ Aziraphale confesses. ‘You’re very… well, you’re so very beautiful, you know. Like a painting, or a sculpture.’

Crowley smiles at this, vain creature that he is. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Oh yes.’ Aziraphale strokes his hair, his fingers drifting down to touch the corner of Crowley’s lips, his chin. ‘I’ve thought so for a long time now. You’re exquisite.’

‘Hmm.’ Slowly, deliberately, Crowley pulls the blankets off himself. He arches his back and tips a knee outwards, posing just a little, and watches Aziraphale’s gaze travel over his shoulders, the scattering of hair on his chest, and down the length of his legs. Aziraphale’s lips part, hungry.

‘Kind of you to say,’ Crowley says, pushing his hand under Aziraphale’s dressing gown and along the inside of his naked thigh.

‘Darling.’ Aziraphale bites his lip, squirming a little when Crowley tightens his fingers in the muscle of his leg. ‘You really – oh. Really. If you want to sleep…’ He breaks off breathlessly when Crowley’s hand reaches the top of his thigh and finds him in a state that really shouldn’t be incurred when doing some light reading.

Crowley smirks, and turns his head to kiss the inside of Aziraphale’s knee. ‘Stimulating book, is it?’

Aziraphale makes a noise, half laughter, half a swallowed moan, and makes a last valiant offer. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you, truly. You should go back to sleep. And I… I thought I might finish this chapter—’

But Crowley’s head is already in Aziraphale’s lap, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to twitch the folds of dressing gown aside and open his mouth.

He won't get long to do this. Crowley would stay between Aziraphale's thighs all day, if permitted, but it's become apparent over the past few days that what Aziraphale likes more than anything is watching Crowley. More specifically watching Crowley have an orgasm under his hands: he likes to touch Crowley until he's hungry and desperate for it, and then curl his hand around his cock to bring him off slow and wet, or push something inside him to make Crowley come on Aziraphale's fingers or his cock.

Presumably decades of forbidden wanting and repressed fantasies will do that to someone; perhaps Aziraphale will change, as they settle into this new thing, but for now he can't get enough of Crowley's pleasure and each time he stares as though attempting to devour Crowley with his gaze.

The chapter never does get finished.

\----------

Mortal bodies and their pleasures are wonderful, and Crowley will never tire of Aziraphale’s enjoyment, his sighs and his murmurs of pleasure, familiar after so many shared meals and yet also, in this context, completely and enchantingly new.

But Aziraphale has some thoughts of his own on the matter, and Crowley is unprepared for the evening Aziraphale makes a nest of blankets and cushions in front of the fireplace and tells Crowley to put on his warmest pyjamas. Crowley raises an eyebrow but obeys promptly: if Aziraphale wants to play at coyly undressing him and slowly making love in front of a roaring log fire then Crowley is very happy to indulge him; his only regret is that he didn’t think of it first. But when Aziraphale produces a pair of lumpy, mud-coloured woollen socks, Crowley recoils.

‘Angel, no.’

They’re the least erotic things he's ever seen, but when Aziraphale gives him a pleading look Crowley makes a face but gives in.

‘I don’t want you to get cold, my love,’ Aziraphale says, fussing and piling more blankets on top of him.

‘I’m sure you’ll keep me warm.’ Crowley tries to leer but he can’t quite manage it, puzzled by Aziraphale nudging him closer to the fire and then lying down on Crowley’s other side and cuddling in close. ‘What are you doing?’

He reaches for Aziraphale, to kiss him and get things started, but Aziraphale only catches Crowley’s hand and kisses it as he curls onto his side and smiles at Crowley. ‘Close your eyes and relax.’

Crowley does, distracted at Aziraphale’s hand in his, the warmth of their palms against one another. Next to him Aziraphale shifts a little, then stills, and Crowley is just about to ask what Aziraphale is playing at when he feels it. A gentle tug, not on his hand but on his demonic form, the intangible part of him that’s rooted in this corporation.

Well then. If Aziraphale wants to swap bodies again he’s welcome to Crowley’s, and Crowley consciously loosens his attachment to his body and lets himself drift towards Aziraphale’s, bound by the connection of their hands.

He’s met with a gentle refusal and while he tilts between the two bodies, game but confused, Aziraphale tightens his hold and pulls Crowley away from their bodies and _out_.

They’re neither of them human, for all they pretend to be, and Crowley lets the occult part of himself rise and soar over the cottage. Aziraphale is there too, dazzling in all the celestial splendour that he hides from the mortals for fear of sending them mad, and he twines himself about Crowley, laughing with delight. Crowley encircles him greedily, engulfing him in a way that’s impossible in their human corporations, limited as they are to their five senses and three dimensions.

They dance together for a night and a day and a night, blending together and pulling apart, over and over, the ache of separation only bearable for the bliss of melting into each other again. Aziraphale sings to him in the ancient tongue of the angels, and Crowley enfolds him in adoration; the sort of earth-shaking love that can level mountains and flood entire valleys, that over the years has sent him across cities and walking over consecrated ground.

And for the first time, he feels it in return: perhaps it’s an after-effect of Aziraphale having worn his body, perhaps it’s because they’ve entwined themselves so completely that he no longer knows where Aziraphale ends and he begins, but Aziraphale’s love for him is almost overwhelming.

_This?_ Crowley demands, astounded. _This is what you feel for me?_

Aziraphale laughs, shimmering in his joy. _Oh my darling, my love, my only. It’s a fraction of what I feel for you._

At the end, when the eastern sky is lightening for the second time since they began, they untangle themselves to return to their human bodies.

Crowley opens his eyes in time to see Aziraphale’s eyelids flutter; Crowley’s mouth is dry, his muscles stiff and cold, but he squeezes Aziraphale’s hand weakly and Aziraphale squeezes back.

How dreadful to be bound into his physical form again. How muffling to have his awareness of the world so confined, to be a mass of bones and flesh, to have to actually speak his thoughts aloud to Aziraphale, and Crowley shuts his eyes and groans at the loss, turning away from the world.

‘Careful, darling.’ Aziraphale’s voice is rusty, and his free hand touches Crowley’s forehead. ‘You’re spilling over.’

Right now Crowley is so loosely anchored in his body that a mere nudge from Aziraphale would tip him out of it, and he concentrates hard on Aziraphale’s fingers twined with his own. Gradually he grows aware of silk against his skin and the woollen weight of the blankets, the smell of dust and old woodsmoke. He listens to birds outside singing the dawn chorus, and he coughs and works his tongue to get some saliva into his dry mouth. At last he lifts his hand to cover Aziraphale’s palm on his cheek with his own freezing fingers.

The fire went out long since and Crowley’s limbs are stiff and aching, but a new sensation is distracting him from the cold. It’s like the tug of a compass to north, the heat of a roaring fire, the pull that sends salmon racing across seas and up waterfalls to return to where they began; it’s all of these things and none of them, all at once, and Aziraphale smiles when Crowley meets his eyes.

‘Is that you?’ Crowley whispers, weak but incredulous.

‘You can still feel it, then.’

Aziraphale strokes his thumb tenderly along Crowley’s cheekbone, making him croak, ‘ _Angel_ ,’ and rouse himself to crawl close and collapse onto Aziraphale’s chest, his cheek pressed to the beat of Aziraphale’s human heart.

‘I love you.’

Crowley is still disoriented, and he only realises what he’s said when Aziraphale tenses beneath him.

‘My dear…’ When Crowley looks up Aziraphale is radiant with delight.

And so Crowley tries again, deliberately this time. ‘I love you, angel.’

And there’s no thunderclap, the words don’t burn his tongue out, they don’t even blister his lips.

‘Thank you,’ Aziraphale breathes.

He looks delighted but, rather significantly, not surprised, and Crowley squints at him before saying, ‘You knew I’d be able to say it, then.’

‘I hoped.’ Aziraphale strokes his hair very gently, and Crowley’s eyes close again. ‘After you wore my body, I thought you might... And after the past two nights. Of course I wouldn’t have minded if you never did, but—’ the words are almost inaudible, ‘–I hoped.’

It’s an hour before either of them can move, and then it’s only to stagger through to the bathroom after Aziraphale chafes Crowley’s icy hands, frowns worriedly, and chivvies him into a hot bath. Afterwards they have tea and buttered crumpets on the sofa in front of a new fire – and Crowley, at Aziraphale’s insistence, lets Aziraphale feed him bites, chewing slowly and anchoring himself in the soft texture, the taste of salted butter.

But when they turn on the radio and find a local astronomer enthusing over the exceptional display of the Aurora Borealis for two nights, albeit over such a localised area, Aziraphale drops his crumpet and buries his face in his hands, scarlet with mortification. Crowley laughs and laughs, before climbing into Aziraphale’s lap and coaxing a hand away so he can feel the warmth of Aziraphale’s blush with his lips.

\----------

The week flies past faster than it has any right to, and at the end of it Crowley packs their cases into the car and then returns to the cottage. Since the world began he’s lived in more human dwellings than he can count, each time moving on and not looking back, yet he’s oddly reluctant to leave this one, and he dawdles.

He wanders into the bedroom and looks critically at the red geranium. At least it had been red when they arrived; now, after a week spent in their bedroom with all that entailed, it's twice the size and covered in a mass of flowers: some are a red so dark it's almost black, while other are the palest shimmering gold. It looks like nothing else on earth. It's going to have to come back to London with them: they can't leave it for the humans to find and wonder at, and Crowley finds himself oddly reluctant to banish it into nothingness.

‘Crowley?’

‘In here,’ Crowley calls.

‘We ought to leave, darling, if we don’t want to miss our train.’ Aziraphale walks into the bedroom, glances at the plant tucked into the crook of Crowley's arm, and his mouth quirks in amusement. ‘Even with your driving it will still take two hours to get to the station—’

But Aziraphale stops talking readily enough when Crowley catches Aziraphale’s sleeve and pulls him into a one-armed embrace, the geranium crushed awkwardly between them. This place feels like a little capsule out of time, where normal rules somehow don’t apply, or will permit themselves to be bent and distorted out of all recognition. Where they’re safe. Where _Aziraphale_ is safe.

And then, because even he can learn a lesson eventually if he runs into a brick wall hard enough for long enough, Crowley mumbles against Aziraphale's temple, 'Tell me again that you'll be ok.'

Aziraphale's arms tighten around him immediately, reassuringly strong. 'I will be fine. I promise you. And I will tell you again, as often as you need to hear it.'

'Hmm.'

But maybe he's right. Because Crowley thought for sure that their antics in the sky would have brought attention from Above or Below, but there’s been nothing. Perhaps Aziraphale is right and they really are being ignored by their respective sides, and when Aziraphale kisses the side of Crowley’s neck, Crowley rests his cheek against Aziraphale’s hair and breathes him in.

‘We can always come back here,’ Aziraphale says gently, lifting his head to kiss Crowley’s cheek.

Crowley noses at the curve of Aziraphale’s jaw. ‘I know.’

‘Although perhaps it might be prudent to do so at a different time of year. After… well.’

Crowley laughs. ‘That was your idea, angel, not mine. But just think: that observatory has never been so popular. You’ve just effectively blessed it.’

‘Oh dear.’

Aziraphale fidgets in embarrassment and, captivated, Crowley thinks for a moment and then noses at Aziraphale's ear to whisper, 'But that I love thee best, oh, most best, believe it.'

' _Darling_.' If reciting words of love poetry will make Aziraphale smile like that every time then Crowley will spend a year doing nothing else. 'And from that play, too.'

Crowley ducks his head. ‘Thought I should tell you.’

'But you've been telling me for years, haven't you?' Aziraphale coaxes Crowley's chin up to look into his face, and cradles his jaw in his palms. 'In your way.'

Crowley is tongue-tied again. With Aziraphale cupping his face he can't look away or hide his besotted expression, but then again he also has an excellent view of the moment Aziraphale's expression shifts from tenderness into something more wicked. 

‘And you’ve told me in words every day since you discovered you could.’ One of Aziraphale’s hands slides down and under Crowley’s jacket to find his belt. ‘Just last night, in this very bed, I distinctly remember you telling me. At least once, in fact, for every time I made you—’

Aziraphale gasps as Crowley’s teeth close gently on his earlobe, a gasp that's almost a squeak, but at least he doesn’t finish that thought.

‘Come on then.’ At last Crowley turns Aziraphale loose. ‘Let’s go.’ He walks to the door and sweeps it open with a theatrical flourish. ‘After you, angel.’

And Aziraphale, with a pleased little flutter, goes.

He rests his hand on Crowley’s knee all the way to the station.

\----------

Their sleeping compartment for the homeward journey is the same as for the outbound journey: two single bunks one above the other. But this time Crowley isn’t having any of _that_.

‘Stand back,’ he says to Aziraphale, and once Aziraphale is out of the way Crowley grabs the edge of the bottom bunk and _pulls_ , gritting his teeth with effort, until it obligingly expands itself into a double. Not a wide double, though. They’ll have to lie very close together if they’re not to fall out.

‘There,’ Crowley says, blowing out his breath and sitting on the edge of the newly enlarged bed, his legs sprawling across the meagre space that remains.

Aziraphale positively beams at him, and comes to stand between Crowley’s knees. He sinks his hands into Crowley’s hair and Crowley tilts his head back to smile at him like a stupid, lovestruck fool.

‘You clever old serpent,’ says Aziraphale.

\--End--

**Author's Note:**

> The full poem, of which Crowley only knows the first half, is:
> 
> When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,  
> I all alone beweep my outcast state,  
> And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,  
> And look upon myself and curse my fate,  
> Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,  
> Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,  
> Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,  
> With what I most enjoy contented least;  
> Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,  
> Haply I think on thee, and then my state,  
> (Like to the lark at break of day arising  
> From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate;  
> For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings  
> That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
> 
> And the title of this piece comes from a quote from Nietzsche, which seemed appropriate for Crowley in this universe: "I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses."
> 
> c/w: brief mention of suicidal ideation in chapter 11


End file.
